


Divine Decadence

by kitnkabootle



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle/pseuds/kitnkabootle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrea Sachs has worked at the New York Mirror for two years, when a news story lands on her desk with ties to a very unexpected woman from her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: M/NC-17/R (very disturbing imagery, sex, violence, rape) Read at your own risk.
> 
> Warning: This story is extremely graphic and the content will probably be considered disturbing to most readers. Please read at your own risk and don't say I didn't warn you.

\--------------------------------------------------------  
Prologue - "Why is everything wrong?"  
\--------------------------------------------------------

Rain teemed down on New York City, flushing its roads as thunder and lightning crackled through the sky that loomed over its tall buildings. A cold Autumn wind swept through the alleyways, fighting with the discarded papers and other garbage that littered them, whipping angrily at rigid street posts. It was dark, the air bitter and crisp, stinging the skin as yet another New York day drew to a close. 

A notice posted to a plank of wood boarding up the window of an old building gave way to the wind's insistence and lifted with its current. It flapped and fluttered, looping as the gusts carried it further down one particularly dark alley until it was suddenly abandoned. It dropped to the muddy pavement before becoming immersed in a sickly puddle. It didn't remain stagnant for long, fixing itself to the sole of a large boot that carried it back down the alleyway and through a tiny gap between two taller brick buildings.

It was dark in the passage, void of all natural light from above and virtually all electricity. A simple red light in a broken fixture was the only guide along the way as the hooded man emerged into a small courtyard. In front of him was a narrow square with a similar courtyard leading the way out beside several old steel doors. One door in particular had a broken and dirty porcelain doll, hung by its limp arm by a cord dangling from a break in the rusting material. The man turned towards it and approached, lifting to the take the doll's second black hand in his as he scraped it in a long 'X' across the door's surface. 

There was a clicking sound and the door opened inwards. The man stepped inside the darkly lit room and smiled at the woman wearing a mask who had just closed the door behind him. She smiled seductively, her lips stained a blood red as she handed him a filthy sheet of paper, marked with sooty fingerprints and small traces of unidentifiable substances. The man grinned, his yellow teeth shining in the darkness and he pushed the paper back without looking at it. "The same as last time..."

The woman watched him carefully, her lips pulling into a wicked smile of her own. He'd never chosen the same one twice. It was unusual but not understandable and the woman lifted one dirtied finger in the direction of the hallway. "At the end..."

The man walked through the hall under the flickering light and stopped at the very last door. His hand fell on the broken handle and he turned it, slipping inside.

She was there as she had been the last time, standing at the far side of the room with her back to him. The cell was a sickening hue of colorless green, the floor filthy with shoe prints and other marks. It was small leaving only enough room for one squeaky, wiry bed frame and a yellowing mattress with a sheet pulled lazily over top. It smelled of corrosion and rust and the small square window above was leaking rainwater in stripes down the grimy wall. 

He could smell her perfume, it mixed with the air in a battle for dominance that it was losing. The hair on his skin prickled with anticipation.

When he closed the door behind him, she stiffened, sensing his presence. She turned towards him, the eyeless mask covering the top half of her features. He longed to know what was beneath, to see the color of her eyes, but he couldn't. It was a rule. He'd broken more rules then he could count in his life, but to break a rule in this establishment meant denial of re-entry. And he would definitely be coming back.

He stalked closer to his prey, sliding eager fingers through his own mess of oily hair, his hood falling off of his face. He smiled at her, wishing she could see the flash of intensity in his eyes, wishing she could see the want pulsating in his pupils. His shoes made squishing noises on the tiles and he could see her breath lifting her chest in uneven spurts. He could smell her fear.

His hands shot out and took hold of her shoulders, forcing her back against the wall with a thud. She let out a soft cry of surprise and he smiled, gripping tighter, restricting her movement.

"Did you miss me?" He asked, his voice taunting her, though he knew she couldn't answer back. Another rule. Her lips parted and closed again and she turned her chin towards the ground. 

He pulled her back from the wall and propelled her forward so quickly that only her torso met the mattress while her knees collided with the tile, slicing through her silk stockings. Her fingers gripped the stained sheet, and she tried to pull herself forward but again he was too quick. He was behind her, pulling at the zipper of her skirt unaware of the cost of such a garment.

When it failed to release he shoved it upwards in bunches gathering it at her slender waist. She twisted beneath him and he lunged forward, seizing her wrists in his large, rough hands, restraining them on the bed above her. She let out a groan that was muffled by the mattress and it urged him forward. He undid the button of his black jeans, the zipper already lowered in anticipation freeing the part of him that was already stone hard. She was weak, vulnerable, something to be destroyed.

He held her wrists, easily in one hand and used the other to pull at the fabric of her panties, sliding them down the tensed thighs until they were out of the way. She bucked and he smiled sliding the same hand up her leg and then parted her thighs in one swift movement.

He positioned himself between the backs of her legs already sheathed, protected and prepared. Yet another rule. He could smell her more strongly. His hand lifted and he took a hold of himself, before thrusting forward in one rough jerk of his hips, burying himself deep inside of her. She arched away from the mattress, her neck snapping up as she cried out. 

His smile widened. He withdrew slowly, carefully and then waited. He could almost hear her heart beating in the damp, hollow of the still air. She was tensing, preparing for the next movement. He thrust but he did not enter. She cried out from fear and then bit it back when she realized her misstep.

She relaxed only slightly provoking his next deep thrust as he forced into her tightness, ripping a stiff gasp from her lips.

He withdrew again but this time he thrust back in and continued his movement. He let go of her hands and took hold of her hips, bruising the white, tender flesh. She reached out and grabbed the metal bed frame, her nails scratching against it as the bed squeaked with his rhythm. 

He could see the muscles straining in her throat, squeezing at her vocal chords, her mouth hanging open in pain and still he quickened the pace, her knees lifting off of the floor with each sharp jerk of his hips.

It didn't take him long and he could feel the tension building within him, like a kettle nearing its telltale whistle. He moved uncontrollably quickly and she strangled the odd whimper that threatened to pass her lips. Finally he gave one last jerk thrusting painfully deep inside of her and he came with a feral growl.

She sagged forward on the bed and he lingered inside a little, bending forward to smell the sweat and perfume at her neck before pulling back and sliding out. He yanked his pants back up his legs and redid them, taking her by the waist and forcing her over onto her back. He looked down at her heaving body, admiring the flush at her pale cheeks as he regained his breath. 

He couldn't believe how beautiful she was and how much he wanted to destroy that beauty, to stop others from seeing what he saw.

He reached out and closed his thick fingers around her neck, squeezing the impossibly soft skin beneath his grasp. She struggled for air, her hands flying to his fingers in an attempt to free herself. She scraped and clawed at him and he pressed tighter, delighting in the irregular patterns of her breath as she choked on the thin supply of air leaking down her trachea. Her hands moved more frantically, her fingers white at the knuckles as she tried with all of her might to release herself from his clutches. 

She was panicking, he noticed with a wicked grin, delighting in the way she jerked beneath him, trying to hold on to whatever was left of her worthless life. She was growing weaker by the second, her fingers more sluggish in their movements and he knew that she was dangling on the pinnacle, the boundary dividing life from death. She was at his mercy.

He let go, watching her own hands close around her throat as her body heaved to recapture lost oxygen. 

"Today, you will live." He smiled and let a low laugh rumble in his chest before heading towards the way he'd come in.

A glimpse of silver and the heel of a satin Prada pump scraping over the filthy tile was the last he saw as he closed the door behind him.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 1 - "I remember one morning getting up at dawn. There was such a sense of possibility."  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was an anomalous fall morning. A morning, unlike all other mornings that preceded it. Sunlight streaked across the sky in clear columns that penetrated the patterns of dull grey that had come before. It was a vision, an epiphany. 

It was on that day, that gloriously anomalous day, that Andrea Sachs' life would change forever.

A brisk wind whipped between the tall apartment buildings, weaving between them and sweeping along the rattling windows, reminding the inhabitants of its existence. A particularly gallant gust broke the barrier beneath one window in particular, sending the curtains behind in to a sudden paroxysm.

Andy's naked body shivered beneath the thin sheet covering her. She groaned in protest and drew the sheet over her head to shield herself against the cold morning air. On the bedside table beside her, the one with the faded watermark decorating its corner, an alarm shrieked its presence, signaling that the night was in fact, over.

Andy let out a loud grunt and snuck her fingers between a gap in the material, plunging her hand downwards in a few haphazard swipes until the shrieking abruptly ceased. Satisfied with her conquest, Andy dragged the covers off of her face and smiled up at the ceiling through eyes that focused and unfocused as the hours of sleep melted away. She breathed in deeply. She loved the smell of fresh morning air and it was the main reason she kept the window open as often as she did. She knew that in the morning she would wake to a freezing, cold and barren apartment but every single night before she lowered herself upon her bed, she would click back the latch and ease the window up its squeaking frame. 

Her steps to the bathroom were cold and she took them quickly, finding her bathrobe hanging in its usual spot on the back of the door. She shrugged it over her slender shoulders and tied it at her waist, peering at herself in the mirror. She poked one finger in her eye and wiggled it back and forth, clearing the fog from her iris before making her way back into her bedroom. She dug her fingertips into the cool window pane and pressed firmly until the morning breeze was shut completely out of her home, halted by the rain streaked glass.

The storm from the night before had been relentless as it beat against the buildings and tormented the sky with furious flashes of white. The thunder had crackled noisily in continued agitation until the very early hours of the morning when the entire tempest had suddenly abandoned New York, leaving only the silvery clouds above as a reminder of what had been. Andy smiled, as she watched the beams of light that permeated the clouds, shining in long angelic streams towards the city below. A flock of birds flew in unison through the rays, sunning themselves before dipping downwards towards the gathering of trees in Central Park.

It was a beautiful day and it belonged to Andy exclusively.

\-------------------------------

Andy dressed and showered in record time, delighting at how smoothly the day had begun for her. Her hair had turned out perfectly, with little effort on her part and her minimal makeup just seemed to highlight her features in exactly the right way. Even her favorite pair of dress slacks seemed to compliment her figure just that much more nicely and the sweater she'd chosen was a deep shade of blue, a perfect shade of blue - cerulean actually.

She would be proud.

Andy halted her thoughts. She wouldn't do that to herself - not today. Today was her day, a day belonging to her alone. She would not allow the usual thoughts to plague her mind, to scrape and grope inside her brain pulling away bits of her sanity. She could think of her on other days but she would not, under any circumstances think of her today.

With her coat wrapped firmly around her shoulders, and a long scarf circling her neck, Andy stepped out into the busy New York street and headed towards her destination. She was lucky that her morning commute was relatively short, only a few short subway stops away from her destination. It made for a pleasant walk, and an even more pleasant morning when she arrived, usually twenty minutes early to enjoy a steaming hot cup of Starbucks. 

The routine had proved hardly different today, except that she had arrived thirty minutes ahead of time before any of the others. She delighted in the sound of a quiet office floor as she crossed to her desk and shed her coat and bag on a chair across from it. She sat behind the wooden surface, turning her computer screen on and hitting 'Refresh' on her Inbox. No new e-mails since last night. That was always a bittersweet feeling. No news was usually good news - but this was seldom true in the publishing world. She couldn't even count on one hand the amount of times a story had broken overnight and she had come into a flood of e-mails, filling her inbox with all of the details, everything that made writing the actual story a breeze.

Today was not one of those countless days, but Andy wasn't complaining. Instead, she sat back in the cushion of her chair and held the hot Starbucks cup between her cool hands. She indulged in its warmth, tasting sip after tantalizing sip - practically purring as it scalded the roof of her mouth. She was treated to five whole minutes of uninterrupted silence before the phone on her desk rang in a faultless impersonation of her alarm clock. She begrudgingly tore one hand away from the smooth heated surface of her cup and took hold of the receiver, lifting it to her ear.

"New York Mirror, Andy Sachs speaking." 

"I have a story for you." An indescribably female sounding voice spoke into her ear.

Andy lifted a brow and leaned forward, placing her cup onto the desk. "Who is this?"

"It's not important" the voice answered.

Andy had had calls like this before. Prank calls, about useless stories meant to lead her off the trail when something big was going down somewhere else. It was one of the oldest tricks in the books and Andy really didn't have any desire to lead the voice along. "Right, well have a good day." She hung up and shook her head. Obviously they were rather new at the game.

The phone rang again. Andy's eyes went to it immediately. Now that was new. They never made a second attempt. She lifted it to her ear. "New York Mirror, Andy spe --"

"Yes I know. Look, there are women's lives at stake here." The voice was more eager this time as it rasped through the receiver's ear piece.

Andy tensed. "Go on."

"In the South Bronx, there are underground houses of prostitution. These places are illegal, torturous and foul. They are places so terrifying that they are called Horror Houses, also known as The Houses of H."

Andy swallowed though she found her mouth had suddenly become completely dry. Her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth, her taste-buds grating along it uncomfortably. The voice continued.

"They are houses of pain where the sick and twisted members of New York City go to take advantage of the women inside. The women often work in these places, suffer their consequences because of the higher price of their service. They can make twice as much at these places then working on the corners, fighting with other women for Johns. The fee seems a small reward for the horrors they have to endure. The Horror Houses have only five rules. One, the man has to use a condom. Two, he cannot visibly hurt her face or cause any marks that might give away her identity in the light of day. Three, she may not speak though there is no restriction on her screams of pain, that he will ultimately cause her. Four, she wears a mask, and he is not allowed to see anything distinguishing on the top half of her face. Five, he may not kill her."

Andy's eyes widened. The fact that 'murder' was on the rule list was not a very good sign at what else would be permitted. She felt nauseous, sick to her stomach as the bile threatened to creep up her stomach walls. The voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Those are the only rules. The rest of the woman's fate is fair game to these disgusting creatures, hell-bent on inflicting terror in their subjects. They are at the mercy of the men, condemned to the constant pain of what they force upon them, but it is imperative that someone bring this story to the light of day. I only know the location of one of the houses. It's called Hell's Passage. If you want the story, the location is yours. If not you it'll be someone else. You have one hour to decide."

The line went dead. Andy waited until she heard the slow steady beep of the disconnection before placing the receiver back down in its cradle. She was cold, her skin prickled by tiny goose bumps edging along the curves of her arms, legs and up the back of her neck. Each minuscule strand of hair seemed to stand one edge at the new clandestine discovery.

A hand descended on her shoulder. She jumped. 

"Whoa whoa whoa... relax kid, it's just me." A friendly male voice sounded from over her shoulder, grinning down at her as he patted her tense muscles. 

Andy's eyes lowered and she smiled weakly. "Yeah, sorry Mark. I just... I just had a really disturbing phone call..."

"Oh yes? The New York Journal again?" He asked, chucking an index finger under her chin before crossing to sit at the desk behind her. "Those bastards get ya every time..."

"No, actually." Andy shook her head her eyes still trying to focus as her mind churned with the unpleasant images the voice had invoked. "No... it's... a genuine tip I think."

"Andy..." Mark's voice was a gentle plea for reason, hoping that she would come to the inevitable conclusion on her own.

"Mark... no, something is different about this call. I have a really bad feeling about it. The person said there's these houses where women get treated really roughly, prostitution houses that take the already degrading experience just that much lower..." Andy rubbed nervously at her arm, willing away the frozen goose bumps that branded themselves into her skin. "The women are subjected to nightly terrors and they're doing it for money. It's in the South Bronx, no doubt poor mothers from the housing projects trying to make a better life for their children. I won't be able to sleep at night knowing places like this exist...."

"But how do you know that they do exist? How do you know it's legitimate? What if it's just another misleading tip, a trap even! What if it's a story some teenager thought up in his basement, or some other sick game? What if --"

"But Mark..." Andy interrupted, her large brown eyes finding his. "What if it isn't?"

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 2 - "No matter what you start with, it ends up being so much less."  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a summer's day in August. The sun was glinting off of car windows and beams of light soared freely around in the busy London streets. The joyous mood that the sun created contrasted sharply against the tall brick edifice on Perch Street. It loomed over its murky sunless shadow and swallowed its tenants within its moldy, soot-coated walls. 

Inside, a small red headed child sat on a dirty woolen blanket, stroking the fabric between her fingertips. The wool scratched against her skin as her eyes roamed over the gray texture, marking its points, admiring the stitching. Voices were arguing in the hallway outside, growing louder and louder until something smashed to the floor, shattering into pieces. 

A male voice shouted, a female voice lowered and then it all came to a quiet with the slam of a broken door. 

The girl's eyes traveled over the peeling wallpaper, the darkened corners, the soot, the holes, mold growing up the walls. As her eyes moved over the paper it began to pull away, falling in sheets as it revealed a sickeningly faded shade of olive behind. The room smelled like dirt, metal, grime and something else unfamiliar. 

The little girl retreated into the woman's consciousness and the woman blinked unseeing, caught behind a black, eyeless mask.

\------------------

He stood in the room, peering down at her. She was kneeling on the bed, her hands bound tightly to the cold bed post. She wore a black skirt as usual, but she had been stripped from the waist up, wearing only the thin black lace of a designer bra. He grinned wickedly from his place in the corner, watching her in silence. 

He could hear her breath escaping from her lips in soft breaches of hitched air. He could see the vertebrae sift beneath her thin, pale skin along the narrow column of her spine. He admired the way her ribs moved with her breath and enjoyed the sight of her three inch heels, one barely clinging to her foot. 

His fingers fumbled at his waist, unbuckling his thick belt and her head straightened as she strained to listen.

He moved quietly, allowing her to hear just enough to draw interest. His hand yanked roughly on the leather swatch, pulling it free from his remaining belt loops in one swift yard. He turned it over in his hands admiring the way it felt in his grasp. Power surged through his body and he stalked closer to the helpless woman.

He could see her trembling as she got closer, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she remained bound at the wrists. Her head swiveled on her neck but she saw nothing behind her covered gaze. 

He pulled the belt taut in his hands, coiling one side around his dirty knuckles. He lifted it up and snapped it against the bed behind her in a loud CRACK.

Her body jolted, as if the belt had struck her directly - the sound alone enough to convey the punishment. She tensed her jaw and straightened her posture.

He changed directions, stalking around the damp cell, pausing whenever he could, making her wonder what his next move would be or where it would come from. 

The footsteps stopped and the blood tingled in her veins. She sensed him. He was near.

After a few moments of tense silence, something happened. There was a soft male grunt and the quick sound of air slicing above her. It was a slight noise, small in presence, the only indication of the pain to come. 

The leather belt cracked against the skin of her back, an angry red welt marring the skin in protest as her head rolled forward. Silver strands of hair stuck to her forehead as the cold sweat leaked out of the pores just beneath her hairline. She didn't make a noise but her jaw tensed, causing the intake of breath to sound rasping and hard.

The belt was gone but her skin still stung as she strained against the restraints. She could hear him moving away from her, knowing that he would soon come back, but not certain from which direction. Her pulse raced beneath the soft skin at her neck. There was silence.

Then she could feel his fingertips tracing the mark on her back. Her skin crawled beneath his touch.

He stilled but the sound of leather twisting against skin disquieted the cell. He lifted the belt in the air and brought it down against the skin of her back again. This time she muffled a cry behind dry lips. His eyes narrowed. He wanted to hear her pain.

He lifted the belt again and whipped it across that beautiful white skin. The sound was louder still, but not quite what he'd had in mind. Anger caused his blood to course fiercely as he began lifting and bringing the leather belt down in relentless stripes across her back. She was breaking. Sounds were torn from her throat, ravaging the filthy room with strangled cries and painful whimpers.

Memories surfaced with each stripe of red. The sound of a wooden drawer, of low heels to old floorboards, of the whispered name 'Miriam'. The sights of an eerily familiar face on an older reflection, a hand clutching to metal, a cracked photograph on the wall. The smell of soot and alcohol. The taste of blood beneath the cheek.

And then it was over. The lashings ceased and she could feel his breath against her neck, grunting as he struggled with her skirt. Her body was like a tightly strung wire, protecting itself when his skin touched hers. She winced but made no further sounds, even as he brought his lips down to one of the particularly swollen marks and bit down into her flesh.

He laughed when a shiver ran down her spine, and his hands moves to her restrained wrists, undoing the tight rope. Beneath the rough twine, her skin was red, the abrasive material having burnt the otherwise pristine white flesh.

When she moved to rub at her wrists, he snaked his arm around her slender waist and dragged her off of the bed to the gritty tile. Once she was there, he forced her to kneel in front of him. The tile was cool beneath her stockings, her kneecaps grinding into the dirt.

His voice was rough at her ear. "Open your mouth." 

He couldn't see the contempt that was hidden by her black mask, but she complied.

Her oval lips parted slowly. She knew what was coming. She waited to taste the bitter latex against her tongue. She waited for the thrusts, daringly close to the back of her throat, choking her. She almost gagged at the thought of it.

And then she felt it. It wasn't what she had expected. Her tongue met with the rough underside of the belt, the taste of salt and hide swimming around her taste buds. She bit down on the leather as it was pulled behind her head and she could feel it being tied off just at the base of her skull. A few silver strands were caught in the knot and he jerked it once for good measure, causing her neck to arch back towards his hand.

Then she felt his hands on her ribs as he pushed her forward onto the tile. Her palms cushioned the fall and her chest throbbed from the sudden movement. He finally found the hook on her skirt and he unclasped it, sliding the zipper down its metal teeth before ripping the skirt from her body. The panties were the next thing to go and he discarded them quickly, uninterested in anything but the vision of helplessness before him.

He pressed his fingers into her hips and she could feel him hard against her thigh. The belt jerked at her teeth and tongue and she could feel him holding the ends of it in one hand. Then with no warning at all, he forced himself inside of her, painfully pulling her apart. A strangled cry tore from her lips and he grinned. His free hand slid around to the front of her thigh, lifting her half off of the ground, angling her to his rocking hips.

Her teeth descended on the leather, grinding it beneath her molars as a flush of scarlet tainted her cheekbones. Her eyes rolled upwards as her blood rushed to the foreign interruption, pistoning in and out of her body. Her muscles tensed, her body ached for release.

He could feel his thrusts getting easier, helped along by her moisture anointing him. He wasted no time, rising to his climax, pulling back tightly on the reins in his hand and consequentially jerking her throat back in an arduous arc of agony.

When it was over she felt the leather being torn from her mouth. She could still taste it and feel it on her tongue. 

She felt sick. She felt violated. She felt sated.

It was a moment of pure macabre cessation. A brutal release that she craved.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 3 - "Always giving parties, to cover the silence."  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flash bulbs illuminated the sky in a series of haphazardly timed clicks and snaps that cast silver orbs of light over the expanse of red carpet. The night was crisp, causing the figures moving amidst the glimmering lights to be dressed in furs and other warm finery that protected them from the chill.

Sleek cars with stretching bodies, rolled to a stop at the end of the carpet depositing the guests. Each figure that arrived was higher on the social ladder then the last, draped in the finest pieces of couture, dripping with finery from Harry Winston and Tiffany's - oversized mannequins in varying shades of colour. They fed off of the attention, unscrupulously indulging in the flattery in a vampiric fashion. False grins showed rows of beautifully straight and whitened teeth as they turned their expressions towards the flash bulbs, their egos fed by the light.

Andy avoided the carpet at these functions. She'd only ever been to one since she'd left Runway, to do an expose on a crooked charity function involving some of New York's top business men. In fact, she'd done such a good job of that particular assignment that it had led to her eventual presence at this gala. Her editor had given her the assignment as a reward for doing so well with the last one. It was a simple piece, not meant to tear away at any jugulars or to pull apart any evil schemes. It was to be relatively simple; her task being only to take down a few quotes for a brief snippet of publicity. 

But what complicated matters was that the woman giving the party had at one point been the single, most important person in her life. And if she allowed herself to think clearly and to be honest and candid with her thoughts, she came to the terrifying conclusion that the woman still was the single, most important person in her life. 

But the fact of the matter was, Miranda Priestly, the Editor in Chief of Runway Magazine, was giving a party and Andy hadn't spoken to Miranda for over a year. 

She'd seen her outside of the Elias-Clarke building on several occasions, but had never been close enough to begin a conversation. Even if she had gotten up the courage to say something, to look the woman directly in her enchanting blue eyes, she would have faltered. Miranda had a mysterious power over her; the ability to reduce her to a series of mumbles and broken sentences without batting an eye. She could never describe what it was about the editor that seemed to draw out the worst in her, but she surprised even herself when she had realized that it was something much more than the devil's control over her success in the New York journalism world. It transcended all professional boundaries, settling instead on shaky, deeply personal, protected ground.

Her hands traveled down the waist of her dress as she eyed herself in the mirror that stood just inside one of the back entrance doors. There was no press around this particular area and it gave her a few moments to study her appearance. She was wearing a cream colored gown with a thin band of brown piping beneath the swell of her chest. The dress billowed around her legs, caressing her skin but not clinging to a single part of her body. It was simple, and it was purchased at a department store. She smiled when she thought of the price tag attached marked $99.00 with a bright red sticker bearing the large yellow letters: SALE. 

But she looked good and she could care less what judgments came her way. She felt comfortable in her clothes, and it was a small gratification considering the amount of discomfort she was bound to feel if she actually ran into Miranda tonight. And being that the party was being hosted by the woman herself, there was no doubt she would, in fact, run into Miranda.

Miranda. The name resonated in her mind, sliding along the elegant dip of her spine, settling in a sea of warmth in her stomach. Even the name still affected her. Three, simple, innocuous syllables and suddenly the blood was racing through veins to a heart that was beating at triple its usual speed. As silly and as impulsive as it was, the need to see Miranda surfaced. She needed to see her, to know she was well, to feel that she was happy. A ridiculous notion, but one she couldn't shake. 

Andy stepped forward, exiting the hallway in favor of the grand ballroom that had already filled with people, mingling about as actors on a stage. She stepped off to the side and took a glass of deep red wine off of a passing tray, enjoying the coolness it created in her palms. The glass rose to her lips and she indulged in a long sip as her eyes surveyed the scene in front of her. 

She hadn't expected Miranda to arrive until later in the evening so it was a surprise when she heard a few mumbled voices around her, announcing the editor's presence. By the time she had located the area where Miranda was entering from, she'd only had time to see the impeccably dressed woman stepping down the very last stair.

A small crowd surrounded Miranda, filled with people brimming with delusions of grandeur, congratulating her on the night's success. Each one of them, vying for a piece of the editor. They demanded her attention, craving the steely gaze she afforded them, desiring nothing more than to stand in her powerful aura. She slipped by like silk through parted fingers, trailed by two assistants, one of them with a face she couldn't recall and the other belonging to the infamous first assistant and unnatural redhead.

The crowds of people seemed to both part for her and move with her at the same time and Andy found herself stepping back further and further until her back met with the wall. She watched Miranda and her entourage pass by as they crossed to the other side of the room and she realized that she'd missed yet another opportunity. In her own frustration, Andy tilted the glass to her lips and took larger sips, draining the red liquid quickly. Her eyes lost their target momentarily before finally resettling on the silver bob in a halo of sycophant admirers.

Andy's eyes immediately went to the editor's uncharacteristically covered throat. Usually at functions, the woman flaunted the beautiful skin along her porcelain decollete, daring gazes to linger longer than they should. Tonight however, Miranda had chosen to wear a dark scarf wrapped around the slender column of her neck, the ends cascading down her back. As Andy's eyes lowered, she realized that Miranda wasn't even wearing one of her trademark gowns, designed exclusively for her by incredibly famous fashion houses. Instead she wore a black suit with a cream colored blouse, the collar framing the line of the scarf. 

It was a different look but certainly no less beautiful on Miranda than any of her previous 'costumes' had been. Andy's breath caught in her throat and she took a sip from a glass that had already been emptied.

It was then that the silver bob slowly tilted in her direction, the dark blue eyes electrifying the air as they locked on Andy's brown ones. The fingers holding her glass went numb and her mouth felt dry and barren. It felt like time had suddenly stopped, as though it had decided that continuing on was no longer relevant. There existed no people, no objects, no places. The world slipped away, melted back to reveal the calm still of absolute nothingness, circling them, separating them. They stood suspended in limbo, neither moving, neither seeming to do anything but steadily breathe in and breathe out in unison.

There was a shattering noise and in an instant, reality rebuilt around her. In her immediate vicinity, people were looking at her, standing above her broken wine glass. She looked to all of them and back to Miranda, whose gaze remained fixed in her direction. Her blood congealed, her fingers trembling as she slid sideways along the wall until her hands met the open air. Then she turned on her heel and fled, down the very same corridor she'd entered. 

She pressed her hands to her cheeks as she hurried along the sidewalk towards the subway station, her fingertips scalded by her body's own reaction to her embarrassment. 

The trip home passed by vaguely and it wasn't until she entered the sanctity of her apartment, did she drop to her couch and bury her head in her hands.

She remembered Miranda as her mind flashed back to the party, standing amongst the throngs her chin tilted high. She surveyed her subjects like a Queen at court. She was calculating her every move, her every expression. She revealed only what she wanted them to see and they, so wrapped up in the glittering world of the New York elite, had been none the wiser to the facade.

But Andy had been. She'd seen something different about Miranda, something that worried her. Ironically she'd noticed it when the editor had opened her mouth, letting forth a beautiful laugh at someone's attempt at a witty comment. She'd almost looked genuinely happy and if Andy hadn't known any better, if she hadn't seen Miranda without defenses, she would have missed it. It had come and gone in a flash, a simple flick of lowered lashes like a silent scream of fragility. It was a moment like any other moment, but in that moment Miranda Priestly's facade had crumbled. Andy had seen something she shouldn't have and the image burned harshly into the very depths of her soul.

In these revelations Andy came to realize that she hadn't collected the story she had been sent to gather. She'd gone, experienced a moment of frightening clarity, and she'd fled.

She sat back in the folds of the sofa, looking at her open laptop sitting obediently on her desk, the cursor slowly flashing on a blank document page. She thought about writing but nothing would come. She was uninspired, her mind forever returning to the briefest exchange. She let out a soft sigh. Her editor wasn't going to be pleased that she couldn't pull it together - but what was she really doing there? Writing about the adulators, the flatterers, the parasites? As though what she could put on paper wasn't to be as over-indulgent and languid as every story ever written about the haute class.

She wanted her work to be so much more. She wanted it to have an impact. She wanted to grab her readers by the throat and dare them to look away. 

She would go tomorrow, she decided. 

Tomorrow she would go to Hell's Passage and she would get her story.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 4 - "Did it matter that she must inevitably cease, completely. All this must go on without her. Did she resent it?"  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Miranda Priestly sat behind her enormous desk in her well lit office, watching the seconds tick by on her wrist watch. The noise of the tiny stick of gold marked the time fragments in even beats, dragging her further and further into her own subconscious. It was an uncommon moment at Runway, the most minuscule gap that rarely found itself edged precariously between her other appointments.

She allowed her mind to wander, as she seldom did - thoughts of Andrea slipping by her defenses, clouding her mind.

She had been there at the party.

She'd been there, near one of the back exits, watching her over a glass of wine. She'd been in the same room, completely alone.

She had been steps away and still Miranda found herself rooted to the spot. She had had nothing to say to the girl. What would Andrea have her say? There was too much distance between them, too much water under the bridge.

Andrea had made the decision to leave and Miranda had signed the release. She'd given Andy a reference, a real opportunity to go somewhere and Andrea had taken it. She'd escaped relatively unharmed.

Miranda bit into her lip.

It wasn't the abandonment that still strained within her, twisting at her stomach wall whenever she thought of that fateful day in Paris. It was before that. Only minutes before that. It was that exact moment when Andrea had looked into her eyes and had admitted her contempt at being compared to someone like her. The look that had flashed in her doe-eyed assistant's gaze moments later had wounded her far more than anything else could have. It was an undeniable, uncensored look of pity.

Pity for the woman whose third marriage had crumbled around down around her. Pity for the dragon lady, the snow queen, the devil incarnate. Pity for the arrogant, the ruthless, the unfeeling. Pity for Miranda Priestly, the woman destined to be alone.

The sound of a throat clearing disturbed her abstraction.

Her eyes opened. She hadn't realized she'd closed them.

It was Nigel, a visitor removing her from her pathetic preoccupation, a welcome distraction from the unsettling quiet.

Miranda's throat rumbled very softly as she prepared to speak, regarding the folder in his hands, over the frames of her Dolce & Gabanna reading glasses. "Are they...?"

"The photographs from the final re-shoot for the Valentino spread? Yes they most certainly are." Nigel flipped his wrist and placed the folder down on the desk in front of Miranda, who immediately leaned forward and began studying the photographs.

Nigel's own gaze drifted from the layout and settled upon Miranda's wrist as she flipped through the pages, drawing thick red squares around the photos she could use. 

"Strange place for a love bite." Nigel remarked, through a teasing grin, his brows moving towards his non-existent hairline.

Miranda's own brow raised as her eyes rolled up to meet his. "I beg your pardon?"

Nigel used the top of his pen to indicate the bruise that was peeking out from beneath her suit jacket. Miranda's complexion paled significantly as her heart sunk lower in her chest. She lowered her gaze to her wrist and tugged down on the suit-jacket to cover it, her jaw tightening. "Perhaps I've not been giving you enough details to oversee Nigel, if my personal appearance has become of sudden interest."

Nigel could read the venom in her voice and he stuttered in surprise. "Oh... Miranda, I didn't --"

"No." Miranda interrupted. "You didn't. Now, if you'll excuse me..." She stood up, tugging her sleeves again self-consciously before picking up the folder and shoving it outwards for Nigel to take. "Take these to Celeste. I expect to see them fitted to a mock up before the hour is up."

Nigel didn't move, his brows worrying as they studied Miranda. The editor's own fixed glare grew colder by the second and finally in a lowered, lethal tone she muttered. "That's all."

"Alright Miranda." Nigel said softly before straightening and heading for the door, looking over his shoulder once more before finally departing.

Miranda watched him leave through a hardened stare before sinking back into her chair. 

She hadn't treated Nigel like a common brainless nobody for years and he hadn't deserved it. He'd earned the right to stand at her side and to ask her more personal questions and to occasionally have a laugh with her at someone else's expense. But today, he'd caught a glimpse at one of her deeper, darker secrets and she'd panicked. 

She trusted Nigel and appreciated him more than she did anyone else. He'd been there for her, faithfully beside her for years and she knew that eventually, he would be her predecessor. She would hand the crown and scepter to him, proud to have him take control of the empire she had created. 

Her eyes roamed over her office, over the covers of some of Runway's finer issues hanging on the wall.

She'd always belonged at Runway. She'd always had complete control over everything she did there. Control of her employees, control of the design teams and control of every single aspect of the finished product. She was Runway in many respects.

She'd ruined marriage after marriage in favor of the magazine; given her blood, sweat and tears for its continued success.

But what would happen when she began to feel her life's centric meaning start slipping through her fingers?

What would happen when her time had finally run out?

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 5 - "Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Click.

She closed the door behind her and crossed to the entrance way table, abandoning her bag and coat upon it. 

Click.

Her heels sounded against the floor, ringing in a stagnate echo. 

The house was as silent as a void between continuums. It was an eerie quiet that grated against Miranda, gathering her nerves into a tight hold. She coughed and cleared her throat just to hear something in the hollow shell, but it wasn't quite enough. Nothing was ever quite enough.

Miranda pressed her fingertips into the sides of her nose, rubbing at the dull throbbing pain that resided there. A breath found its way into her ribcage, expanding her diaphragm as she began the long climb to her bedroom.

Click.

With a flick of a switch, the lights illuminated the bathroom and Miranda dropped her hands to her sides as she moved to stand in front of the tall mirror. 

She swallowed, watching her throat shift slightly with the movement. Then she slipped her hands under the lapel of her jacket and slid it off of her shoulders. It slipped to the floor and landed at her feet. Her fingertips worked at the buttons on her blouse until she'd unfastened them all, sliding it off of her shoulders, the silky material fluttering to couple with the afore abandoned jacket.

Her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror. There were bruises up her arm, fingerprints and various pools of blackened blood, swimming deep beneath her pale skin. The marks were immersed along her collarbone and almost black at her neck where his hands had held her.

Her eyes moved down her breasts to her ribcage, following the marks to her abdomen. A small trickle of congealed blood decorated the top of her navel, slicing towards her appendix. She ran a finger tip over it, her stomach inching backwards, rippling to escape her touch. Her eyes moved up to her face. Beneath the impeccable makeup, she looked tired and listless.

Her lips turned up at the corners. She'd become an expert at facades. 

She unbuttoned her trousers and allowed them to slink down her legs. Once her feet were clear, she kicked them aside, stepping down from the platform of her shoes.

She was disgusted with herself. Revolted by the way she looked. Her assessment was clinical and detached as if she were dissecting one of her models. Her glacial gaze took in the memories of pain stained into her skin and she felt her eyes stinging as her vision blurred. She blinked the salty tears away, threatening them, daring them to fall. When they didn't, she ran her shaking fingertips through her forelock of silver before reaching over to the small drawer beneath the sink.

It slid open, rolling along its runner and grinding a jagged line through the stillness. She reached in and picked up the sterling silver-handled shaving blade, slowly holding it up to the light. It glinted, casting beams across the room, blinding Miranda when one of those beams slid past her lashes, into her eye. She drew it towards her, holding it between herself and her reflection. 

She ran her finger along its edge, watching as it parted through the skin on her fingertip, letting a thin ribbon of red seep to the surface. 

She turned her hands over so the palms faced the ceiling and she admired her slender wrists. They were as pale as the rest of her skin and delicate, the flesh so thin that it drew attention to the criss-crossed tracks of blue beneath. Her veins moved like rivers to a sea, wandering and winding by their own accord. She could imagine her blood floating along them, rushing like water over rocks, rippling at a river's mouth. 

She lowered the razor towards her wrist.

What would page six have to say about this? What would anyone have to say about this? Surely, they'd all be shocked. Who knew that Miranda Priestly was capable of...

But then she'd always been a murderer to them, hadn't she? It had been a bitter climb to the top and she'd fought for every inch of lead along the way. She'd pulled people down and ground them beneath her four inch heel. Blood had been spilled and lives had been ruined all for the chance to taste of the forbidden fruit. To outwit, to outshine and to outlast. To watch over her enemies until the very last one fell. 

She hadn't gotten where she was by being 'nice'. She'd gotten there by taking down anyone that tried to stand in her way. They'd never know, would never walk a second in her shoes. They'd never feel what she felt or see the images etched behind her eyelids of memories that still woke her in her sleep.

Just a slip against the wrist and all of it would be as if she'd never been. Snow would melt and life would go on without her.

They would be safe. They would all be safe.

But when it was all over, what would she think?

Click.

The blade slipped from her fingers and landed against the cool porcelain sink. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 6 - "I am doing what seems to be the best thing to do."  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Andy shifted the dark hood of her sweatshirt over her head and tilted her chin back, looking down her nose at her darkened reflection. She looked different, surprisingly so, and it fluttered in the form of confidence deep within her soul. She was wearing some old clothes Nate had left behind in the closet when he'd left. She wore baggy black jeans and a matching hoodie with a pocket at the front that she slipped her notepad and tape recorder in to. The hood shielded most of her face from view and thickened her shoulders, giving her the broader appearance of a young man. 

She opened her purse and dug out the funds she'd extracted from the bank, three hundred dollars in cash. Somehow she didn't suspect the place took VISA. It hurt her to know how much it would cost her, but breaking a story like this came only once in a lifetime and if it saved just one girl from spending a night of pain with a John, it would be worth it. Her mind was set, and there was no turning back.

She felt the cool cylinder of pepper stray beneath her fingertips and she collected it from her purse, placing it as the final object to enter the kangaroo pouch at her middle. It wouldn't hurt to have a little back up if it was needed. Her cellphone was tucked into one of the pockets of her jeans as she headed out towards the door. The subway trek was long and she got off at the Westchester Avenue station just after 11:30pm. She didn't have very much time to find the place as the anonymous voice on the phone had told her that she was to arrive at midnight, no earlier and could only arrive at the latest, ten minutes past. 

She had gotten directions from the woman on the phone and had drawn herself a map on a crumpled piece of paper. She stood under one of the lights in the safety of the subway station and examined it. She'd have to move quickly and with purpose. Being in this particular neighborhood especially at night, was a very dangerous undertaking. You had to make it look like you knew the streets, like you were one of them. She groaned softly, realizing that she was profiling the very people she fought for in her articles. These were people like any other people, trying to get through life and to make it up in the world and away from the life they were often born into. Children in the housing projects often had to join gangs at a young age so that they could survive amongst their peers and the gangs often involved selling drugs or weapons allowing these children to earn a little money for their families. The problem was that these activities often landed the children in hot water with the police stations and they usually had lengthy police records by the time they were old enough to be employable by respectable businesses. For the people living in the projects and other poorly maintained areas of South Bronx, every single day was a struggle. They did what they had to.

Any knew she'd have to avoid putting herself in direct danger if she could avoid it, and blending in with the people who lived there was something she had to do in order to slip under the radar.

She adjusted her hood around her face and headed out of the Subway station. The soles of her running shoes squeaked against the pavement as she walked, and the cool air whipped against the flesh exposed beneath her hood, tainting her skin a blotchy red. She shoved her hands in her pockets as she crossed the road, slipping by a gang of men huddled on a row of cement steps.

They turned towards Andy as she walked and their jeers grew louder though none of them moved to follow her. The disguise had clearly worked. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she were down in this particular area at this time of night in clothes from The Closet, she might be in for a bit of a harder time.

She pressed on, following the streets she'd read on the map just minutes before, winding her way deeper into the thudding heart of the South Bronx. She could feel herself growing closer to her destination, the light having evaded the hollow of the alley she'd just turned into, leaving a black and inky tunnel ahead.

She squinted her eyes, reaching her hands out to the side to feel the wall. The brick was damp beneath her fingers leaving a wet slime against her skin. She recoiled from it, and wiped her hands down the backs of her baggy jeans.

A red light came into view acting as a beacon down the passage. The hairs on her neck stood at attention, each pore standing up in defense of whatever horrors she might encounter. She could feel her pulse quicken with each thud of rubber beneath her foot.

She was in a small clearing then, at the axis between neighboring alleyways. There were three doors in the courtyard. One was broken completely off of its hinges, laying against the side of the doorway that led up a frighteningly dark flight of stairs. To the right of that one was another, blackened door decorated with a limp porcelain doll hanging innocently by a dark rope.

She remembered it from the phone call. The instructions had been all too clear. This was definitely the place.

Swallowing the swelling lump that had risen in her throat, Andy stepped forward and took the doll's free hand in hers. It was ice cold to the touch, not surprisingly so, considering the bitter weather from the New York Autumn night. Her nerves had caused her fingertips to tremble and when she moved to stroke the doll's hand across the door, it slipped from her fingers. The second try was more successful and she managed to complete the X symbol across its surface, tracing the faded Xs that had obviously come before.

Andy waited for awhile, wondering if she should make the symbol again or to give up and flee while she had the chance. Her mind was slipping towards the latter, but all hopes of retreat were destroyed by the gentle click and creek of the door opening before her.

Her muscles tensed as she stared into the darkness, fear clouding her thoughts. Everything about this whole experience told her to turn away, to escape, but something inside of her edged her on. She had to do this, for the women inside and for herself. There really weren't any other options. There was a message straining to be delivered and Andy had chosen to be the interpreter.

She stepped forward into the darkness leaving good judgement behind.

It smelled revolting in the house and Andy peered around nervously as her eyes adjusted to the dark lighting. The air felt dense in her lungs and she coughed on what felt like soot hanging thickly in the air.

"Ah, we have a new one..." A silky voice rang out behind her causing her to spin around and peer in its direction.

A woman was leaning against the door, blocking the exit, a dark mask covering the top half of her features. She had dark hair that hung around her shoulders in matted hanks, kissing her dark jaw.

Her lips were a violent red color, curling up in a menacing smile as Andy regarded her, unspeaking.

 

"Welcome to Hell's Passage, my dear..."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 7- "Thereby she defines her humanity."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Andy's lips pressed together and released as she tried to calm the alarm bells, ringing in her mind. She hadn't thought about having to portray a male voice, or having to be able to communicate convincingly. She'd figured she'd waltz right in, purchase some time and speak to one of the women.

Yeah, Andy... cause dealing with underground sex trafficking was really a simple business.

She shook her head and dug her hands further into her pockets. She decided she'd speak in choice words, with as little a response as required, should the need arise.

The woman didn't seem to be waiting for her response however, and she slid by Andy, leading her to a putrid looking couch barely clinging to its four feet. Andy didn't even want to sit down but she forced herself to when the woman languidly lowered to its cushion. She ran her broken fingernails down the length of her neck, leaving a dark and irritated trail in their wake.

Andy watched her fingertips move lower until they disappeared into the opening of her laced shirt and retrieved a folded, blackened paper. She extended her hand towards her and Andy's eyes traveled down the track marks on her arm, settling upon the paper. She reached out and took the offering into her hand, unfolding it slowly as her eyes scanned its contents.

There were names written on the paper. Ten of them looked to be unmarked, while countless others were scratched out around the edges of the paper. The lump had returned in her throat as she wondered why those particular names were no longer on the list. Her heart fluttered.

"Pick your poison..." The woman drawled, letting out a low cackle at her own tasteless and cliched statement.

Andy was looking over the names, not searching for anything in particular when she saw it. Scrolled near one of the edges was the name Gabanna. It leaped out at her like a blinding beacon, a flashback to that desk in the high rising building of Elias-Clarke where she had sat and written that name for the first time in her life on a piece of scrap paper.

At that time it had meant nothing to her but it had since proven to be a subject she'd become fluent on. But then that was awhile ago, a different life, one she no longer lived. So it was fitting that what would become one of her biggest writing accomplishments, would in actuality be a homage to the year of professional hell she'd survived.

Andy pointed to the name on the page. The woman's smile grew even more wicked and she nodded her head. "Gabanna. An excellent choice."

Then the dirty woman leaned forward and Andy could smell the scent of decay on her breath as she rasped. "The merciless the better."

Andy could feel her skin crawling and she was glad for small mercies when the woman pulled back and leaned into the folds of the rotting couch. She pointed a crooked digit in the direction of the hallway. "It's at the end."

Andy rose to her feet quickly and headed as far away from that woman as she could. She could hear the woman laughing behind her, the menacing sound echoing off of walls.

Her feet seemed heavy as she walked down the length of the dark hallway. Behind the thin walls she could hear women's noises of protest and cries of pain, mixed with grunts and groans of their male visitors and the bile began to rise in Andy's throat. She coughed again, willing herself not to be sick but the stench, mingling with the thick sooty air and the sounds of torture overwhelmed her.

Her eyes unfocused and she used the wall to support herself. She pulled three great heaving breaths into her lungs and slowly pushed onwards.

She had found the end of the hallway and she lifted her hand to the broken doorknob of the very last door. Her fingertips slipped on the greasy handle as she turned it within her hand, and she quickly slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

The air felt different in this room. It was still rusty and damp smelling, but there was another aroma lingering in the air. It was familiar, something she'd smelled many times before but couldn't seem to associate it with any person or thing.

She turned slowly, her eyes taking in the small cell-like room. It was horrific. It was an off-green color, the type of green one could associate with horror films of modern times. It was cold, unfeeling and moist with a floor dirtied by shoes and other filthy substances. The small window on the back wall was covered in bars, shining uneven light into the small area from the moon above.

The glow reflected off of something on the bed and Andy's eyes moved instantly to it. It was shining lock of silver hair shifting as its owner moved. The woman was facing the wall and Andy could only see a slender hip covered in what looked to be an average skirt to the untrained eye.

Andy, however, knew its designer the second she saw it. It was Armani.

Her stomach tightened. That can't be...

Her eyes moved lower along the figure's shapely thighs and calves towards the three inch heels. They were 'lark plum' - vintage cut with a rounded toe. Prada.

The woman lifted, shifting towards her direction. Her profile came into view first.

It was a profile Andy had seen more times than she could count. A profile burned into her memories, haunting her every waking dream. A profile belonging to no other in this world than the one woman who had changed her life.

Andy's heart skidded to a stop and her throat constricted. She choked on her own saliva which had begun to evaporate inside her larynx.

Looking up from the bed, blinded by a black mask, was Miranda Priestly.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 8 - "I am living a life, I have no wish to live."  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She'd known from the silver swipe of perfectly styled hair. She'd known from the slender nose with the deviated septum. She'd known from the tilt of the elegant chin. But it was something Andy couldn't have prepared herself for.

The questions collected in her head, flashing behind closed eyelids like slides on an old projector.

Why was she here? Of all people, why was she here? Had she been abducted? Was there even more to the story then the disembodied phone call had told her? Had she been here long? Had anyone touched her? Had anyone hurt her?

Andy's body gave an involuntary shudder at the thoughts plaguing her mind. She forced her lashes to part and peered out from beneath them at the still figure on the bed. Miranda's chest was rising and falling rapidly and Andy realized that her continued presence without speaking was probably frightening the blinded editor. She could only imagine what types of torture the men gave these women while they remained shut behind veils of darkness.

There it was again. The wave of nausea that had swept over her earlier had returned and she stepped forward, wrapping her fingers around the rusty bedpost to stabilize herself. Miranda jerked back when she felt the bed shift and Andy watched the muscles tighten in the older woman's neck and chest. Then she relaxed slowly, sinking back into the bed with a flush at her cheeks.

Andy's eyes trailed slowly over Miranda's body. She was wearing a blouse that buttoned rather modestly up her chest but she could see the bruises spilling up that delicate skin along her neck. One question was answered and Andy's fingers tightened, her knuckles going stark white as the rage began to boil her blood. If she had been there, if she'd been earlier... maybe she could have stopped it.

Something about Miranda had always made Andy want to fight for her; to protect her. It wasn't as if Miranda had ever given off the idea that she needed such sentiments, but Andy had felt the urge rooted deeply in her soul. The first time she'd felt that sense of protection had been when she'd walked in on Miranda and her husband arguing at the townhouse. She had known immediately that it was something she shouldn't have seen. It was an intensely private moment and the way Miranda's voice had sounded strained and pleading, had set her teeth on edge.

She'd almost lunged at Stephen when he had come in to view, but thought better of it when she felt Miranda's ice cold gaze, burrowing into her, demanding that she stood down. And then she had been stuck. Since that moment, her life been frozen on one equilibrium. 

She'd realized, when she laid next to her boyfriend after returning home that night, that she was living a life she'd had chosen for her, not decided on herself. She'd realized that she didn't love Nate, although living together and continuing a loveless relationship had seemed the simplest thing to do at the time. 

Her largest self-realization was that she was in love with a woman. And not just any woman, either. She was in love with her very unattainable and completely uninterested boss.

Miranda moved again on the bed and Andy's shaking fingertips acted as if they were no longer connected to her body. They snaked over Miranda's cheek, over the soft lily-white train of skin until her palm was cupping a delicate jaw. Miranda was vibrating beneath her, trembling when she felt the hand upon her.

"Miranda..." Andy breathed while sliding her free hand to Miranda's other cheek.

Miranda's whole body became excruciatingly rigid beneath her touch. Silence filled the room only being interrupted by the steady drip of water in one of its corroded corners.

For awhile it seemed that neither of them would move again, until Andy's courage returned to her and she slid her fingertips under the mask. Miranda's own hands flew up so quickly that Andy didn't have time to prepare. They caught Andy's hands briefly before claiming their place at the bottom lip of the mask. Miranda let go of the material and used her hands to sit up, the bed squealing in protest beneath her.

Andy watched as Miranda lifted her hands again to the mask and followed the material as it was pulled free from her face. Her eyes were downcast, trained on an invisible spot near her lap, her neck crooked forward slightly. She looked discovered and defeated, a small smudge of mascara framing the outside corner of her eye.

Andy lowered herself towards the disgustingly dirty tile, being careful not to touch it as she squatted down before Miranda. She slid the hood off of her head and peered up at Miranda through messy dark fringe that covered her eyebrows and touched to the outside sweeps of her lashes. She couldn't see into Miranda's eyes, so her gaze trailed lower, resting upon Miranda's soft lip.

It quivered slightly under Andy's scrutiny and then stilled as the lips were pressed together, hardened into a straight line. Andy's hand slid out and captured Miranda's in her own, squeezing it with force not wanting the older woman to pull away. She didn't.

Finally, Miranda's eyes rolled up to meet Andy's and Andy felt her spine tingling when she saw that the familiar deep blue depths were clouded with un-shed tears. They stared at one another for a few frozen moments before a tear escaped the corner of Miranda's eye and rolled down the slope of her cheekbone. Andy reached up with fingertips that couldn't still and she trailed the shaking digits over Miranda's cheek, catching the moisture on her own skin.

A confusing sense of urgency had swollen inside of her, clinging to her insides and sticking to her stomach wall. When she heard her own voice in the dark cell, it sounded unfamiliar, raspy and braver than she felt. "Let's get you of here."

Miranda deftly raised her fingertips and flicked them lightly in the air as if trying to find the words that would somehow give her control back. The words didn't come however, and neither did the suddenly inaccessible commanding presence she so often inhabited.

Instead Andy raised herself up and hooked her arm under Miranda's, firmly grasping the editor by her slender waist. With a gentle heave, Miranda was on her shaky feet, her usually perfectly designed posture traded for a weak stagger as she shrugged out of Andy's grasp. Andy watched her, her eyes swollen with worry as she twisted her ankle and foot back into her shoe and tilted her chin up in the air in a vain attempt at recapturing her pride. When she turned back to face Andy, her features were set so perfectly that under any normal circumstances, Andy could have imagined that they were standing on the twenty seventh floor of Elias-Clarke.

In actuality, Andy would have given anything to be back on the twenty seventh floor of Elias Clarke. She would have given anything to be anywhere but in the cold frightening den they stood in, listening to the strangled sounds of pain echoing off of the walls.

Andy made for the door but she was halted by Miranda's fingers closing around her wrist. "You have to go out the way you came, I will exit out the back and meet you on Thawyer Street which can be reached by the alley leading north."

Andy was so surprised to hear Miranda's commanding cadence return that she felt compelled to reach for a notebook to jot the instructions down, prepared to hear something about Calvin Klein or Valentino. But there was something different in Miranda's voice that gave way to the underlying torrent of emotion being held back through gritted teeth. Her eyes wouldn't meet Andy's though the younger woman tried desperately to see inside their recesses.

Miranda's hand turned on the door handle and opened it, pushing Andy out with force before her. Andy stumbled and headed down the hallway, daring to peek over her shoulder just in time to see Miranda slipping through a door on the opposite side of the hall.

Then she was alone.

When she reached the lobby, the woman was standing near the door with a taller hooded figure standing next to her. He was grumbling under his breath and the woman seemed to be engaged in an intense gaze with him which was interrupted by Andy's presence at the door.

The woman turned to her and extended her bony fingers with the palm side up. "My my... that was quick. How was she?" She asked, her voice gruff and low with a menacing lilt beneath it. Andy stuttered, unable to find any intelligent words, so instead she merely nodded her head quickly, tugging the hood further down her features.

"Mmmm... one hundred for you."

Andy nodded again and fished the crisp bill out of her pocket, placing it in the woman's grasping fingers. They closed around the paper greedily and slid back towards her person, tucking the funds down the front of her dress. "I know you'll be back. Gabanna has loyal clientele..." The woman rasped, tilting her chin back towards the man standing before her. The hooded man's head slowly turned to face Andy and Andy felt a shiver of fear run down her spine. Before she could be seen, she lurched forward to open the door and could barely hold back a yelp when it didn't move.

Her heart beat full speed ahead as her finger nails scratched at the handle, trying to free herself with an urgency of impending danger if she didn't escape. There was a cool hand descending on her shoulder and she spun around, prepared to defend herself. It was the woman, the wicked smile on her lips tugging upwards, baring yellowing teeth. "Let me... "

Andy squeezed her eyes shut, faintly hearing the clicking of the unlocking door before feeling the night breeze at her skin. She slipped through the open door and took to the alley at a run, heading in the direction Miranda had specified. The alleyway had clouded with fog and it smothered her easily within its folds as she blindly ran forward, her heart still beating quickly in her chest, forcing her blood through the tracks of her veins. She concentrated on the thump of her rubber soles against the cement and trailed her fingers over the walls on either side of her, staggering forward as if in hot pursuit.

She felt a hand reach out and clutch to the hood of her sweater, yanking it back as she felt the zipper scratch against her throat. She spun around and threw herself at the offender in hopes to ward it off, and found herself falling towards the cold cement on top of Miranda Priestly.

Miranda let out a grunt as her back collided with the dirty, wet alley floor and a second one when Andy's full weight ground on top of her. Andy's eyes widened when she realized her error and she pressed her hands to either side of Miranda's head, leveraging herself up carefully.

Her eyes locked with the editor's and for a moment she was transfixed by their expression. She had never seen it before, a flash of intense passion seemed to swirl inside them and disappear without a moment's notice, only to be replaced by the cold, hardened, calculating one from before.

She struggled to her feet and extended her hand to Miranda, helping the woman up.

"Roy is waiting three blocks down." Miranda broke the silence, jerking her head in the opposite direction towards the clearing hidden by the haze of the thick fog. Andy nodded and waited for Miranda to head out first and Andy followed suit, both missing the scene that was transpiring just down the alley way behind them.

Inside the dark, foreboding world of Hell's Passage, a man growled angrily at the woman with the wicked smile, when he noticed an empty cell where his purchase ought to have been.

 

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Chapter 9 - "A woman's whole life in a single day. And in that day - her whole life."  
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The townhouse was deathly quiet as Miranda and Andy entered, the sound of the editor's heels clicking against the entryway floor, sounding an echo that lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. Andy followed her as she walked towards the staircase and the older woman turned at its base, facing Andy with a glare. "That's all."

Andy's eyes widened and she stalled, completely taken aback by the sudden coldness. She'd just helped Miranda out of an underground brothel, helped to see her safely home and now she was being 'dismissed'?

"Miranda..."

Miranda's eyes flicked down and up her body before resettling on her widened brown eyes. "Go."

Andy's brows knit together and her eyes narrowed as she reached forward to take hold of Miranda's arm. "Miranda, I'm not..."

The editor shrugged out of her grasp and stumbled up the stairs towards the first landing. Andy stopped her on the flat between the sets of stairs and reached forward taking Miranda by the shoulders. The woman tried to shake free again and Andy's hands slipped lower, resting on the curve of Miranda's hips and forcing her back.

Miranda's shoulders thudded against the wall and the look that had appeared earlier, made its comeback. In a flash, it had returned and in a flash it had disappeared leaving the editor's gaze still burning into Andy's soul. Miranda stretched forward suddenly, their noses almost touching as their breath tainted the air between them. Their proximity was intoxicating and Andy, overwhelmed by the entire experience suddenly felt nauseous as if the world were tipping slowly to the side.

She stumbled backwards and almost fell down the flight of stairs before Miranda's arms shot out and took hold of her shoulders, steadying her. Andy came forward, her fringe resettling at her brow, hiding the chestnut eyes behind their sweeping tendrils. She tilted her head up to look at Miranda and their eyes locked together.

There was a severity to the moment that seemed attached to the ebb and pull of their breath, mingling between them. It was Andy who spoke first, pulling back to a safe distance. "Miranda...please. I want to help you."

"To help me?" Miranda asked, incredulously, her tone lowering to a quiet pitch riddled with the foreboding threat. Then surprising the younger woman, Miranda's nose wrinkled and she snorted, the laugh never reaching her eyes. "How do you propose to 'help' me... Andrea?"

Andy's porcelain teeth sunk into the flesh of her lip as she tried to think quickly, Miranda's mocking jeer having shoved all clear thought aside. She stuttered, her brown eyes flicking from side to side. "Uhh.. well.. I... M.. I know you... you need.. help. I want to know wha... I want to help you."

Miranda's eyes narrowed and glazed over, the frost filled gaze piercing Andy's soul. She moved towards her, closing the safe distance between them and Andy without anywhere to go, felt her heel hooking off the top stair. She stepped down shakily, looking up at Miranda who was now roughly a foot taller. The woman with the height advantage responded. "You flatter yourself. I need no help from you Andrea. Your blatant disrespect and disregard were made quite clear in Paris." The editor paused, allowing the message to sink in.

It came across quite clear. "Now you will remove yourself from my house, and my life and if you breathe a single word of this to anyone, I will be certain that your career in journalism is permanently extinguished." She stared unblinking down at Andy, using the height as leverage.

Andy swallowed and tensed, her mind sending the signals of survival instinct surging through her body. She wanted to run as fast as she could out of there, to do exactly as Miranda had demanded but found that she was rooted firmly to the spot, staring up at the editor with unbridled intensity. With an unfamiliar sense of gusto, she jolted forward then, so suddenly and with such purpose that Miranda had no choice but to back up against the wall. Andy took Miranda by the shoulders and held her in place, quelling her protests. "Look. I'm not your assistant anymore and I don't give a fuck about what you can or can't do to me. This is serious. Tonight... the pl ... what the hell happened in there?"

Miranda's look of pure loathing remained and she gritted her teeth, trying to shrug free of Andy's grasp. When Andy pressed harder, Miranda's head rolled back on her neck and a soft moan slipped from her lips, betraying her.

Andy watched Miranda's cheeks flush, and brows raised, her lips parting from one another. She looked almost like she'd just enjoyed...

Andy's fingers tensed against Miranda's slender arms. Suddenly ideas began coming together in her mind as the small stitches of information finally painted a clearer picture. Her sudden curiosity got the better of her and when Miranda didn't respond she shook the editor lightly. Miranda's lips moved wider apart and her breath caught in her throat, her lashes fluttering open to reveal passionately darkened irises.

"Miranda I..." Andy breathed, but Miranda didn't seem to hear as she turned Andy so her back was against the wall and shoved her against it. Miranda tilted her head to the side and regarded the younger woman down the bridge of her nose and Andy shifted uncomfortably at the cannibalistic gleam in the editor's eyes.

Andy felt the air sigh from between Miranda's lips and her own grew dry at their proximity. She searched for something to say but came up empty handed, her teeth flattening into her lower lip as her eyes traveled across Miranda's glistening ones. Then something minuscule happened, a moment like any other edging between them and then Andy felt Miranda's lips on hers.

Her eyes were open in surprise, a blur of Miranda's white skin and dark lashes being the only thing she could make out as she felt the rough assault of her mouth. Her pulse raced and her blood boiled to the surface of her veins, causing her to sway lightly before being pressed completely against the wood of the wall.

Andy felt that everything in that moment was exactly right. She felt as though all of her wishes had been granted, all at once and there she stood in the arms of the woman she had quietly loved for longer then she'd care to admit. She wanted to give herself completely to the woman, to thank the heavens and whatever gods lurked within them for rewarding her with everything she'd been dreaming of.

But something about the kiss felt wrong. It felt one sided, and ironically the side that was invested was her own. She felt an urgency and a pain in Miranda's kiss. As if the woman were trying to hold on to her sanity by latching on and stealing hers. Then there was a probing tongue, violating her mouth trying to hook around Andy's tentative one. And then when she didn't respond, Andy felt a sharp pinch in her lower lip and she pulled back, bringing her fingertips to the sting and peering down at the red upon her digits.

Miranda didn't seem to notice as she watched Andy with dilated pupils, preparing to go in for a second round. Andy flinched and titled her head away, and Miranda snorted. "Oh don't play hard to get."

Andy's eyes narrowed, a frustration building within her at the insinuation that she was even okay with this to begin with. The actual idea of it all made her heart thump quickly in her chest but the execution left more than something to be desired.

"Stop!" Andy demanded, fighting off the editor's firm hands holding her captive against the townhouse wall. She found that her efforts were futile, Miranda's hands surprisingly tight as they crushed into the tendons of her wrist. "How the fuck do you know what I want?" Andy demanded, her chest heaving with quickened breath.

"I saw the way you used to look at me." Miranda pressed forward, the elegant slope of her nose drawing dangerously close to hers. The editor's eyes crackled with fire, the pupils black with inky pools glittering in their depths. "The way you still look at me."

Andy felt the hands closing even tighter around her wrist, her cheeks red hot at Miranda's accurate observations. She'd never been able to hide anything from the older woman. Not as her boss and certainly not now, after everything that had happened. But here she was, squirming against the editor whose hot breath was pulsating near her lips and all she could think about was how wonderful those lips looked and how if she just leaned forward...

The warmth sent a throbbing trail down her spine towards her coccyx which looped around and spread between her thighs. A whimper escaped her lips and her eyes flew open, hoping Miranda hadn't noticed. Unfortunately, she had and a slow sensual smile was wickedly creeping across her mouth. Feeling completely at the disadvantage to Miranda's control, Andy looked for a flicker of weakness in Miranda's facade and hooked her knee between the older woman's thighs. Miranda's eyes widened in surprise as Andrea pressed her knee between her legs and flipped her around, slamming her back into the wall. She winced at the thud that resonated in the silence, but it vanished in a cold trickle when she saw Miranda's lips part to let forth a moan as her eyes rolled behind her eyelids. The awareness was showing itself, sunning itself proudly before her as the rest of the puzzle fell into place.

To test her theory, Andy ground her fingernails into Miranda's shoulder blades and pulled her away from the wall before slamming her right back into it. Miranda, predictably gasped in pleasure and let her head roll forward on her neck, blanketing her features from view in a carpet of silver white hair.

Andy's fingers began to tremble against the fabric of Miranda's coat, her thoughts racing through her mind before she could grab hold of them. She hadn't, in all of her wildest dreams, expected anything like this. In any fantasies she'd had similar to this nature, she'd imagined Miranda wielding the whip, not cowering in the corner.

Andy snuck her hand beneath Miranda's chin and lifted it slowly, the darkened blue eyes rising to hers in synchronization. She watched as the older woman's lips parted, whispering hoarsely in her ear "Make me bleed."

Andy's heart ceased to beat. Had she heard that correctly? Miranda expected her to... that she...

A lump formed in Andy's throat which she pressed down in a thick swallow, her vision blurring and refocusing as she moved her eyes over Miranda's unwavering expression. To her own surprise, Andy felt a tingle down her spine and a wanton lust growing in her belly. Her fingers chanced a meeting with the editor's jaw who pressed her flesh into Andy's touch, her lashes meeting in a delicate kiss.

Andy pulled the fabric away from Miranda's neck, uncoiling the scarf from the slender column, horrified at the patches of primary colors that adorned her skin. She could feel Miranda's breath hitch as she lowered her lips to the tender, bruised flesh placing a delicate kiss just to the left of the trachea. Miranda's muscles tensed beneath her touch and she could feel her pulse racing beneath the thin flesh, edging her on, begging for release.

Andy pulled her lips back and pressed her porcelain teeth against the flesh in preparation, the bottoms barely grazing the skin, causing Miranda's neck to arch into her. She felt the pulse again, almost tasting the life that sped through the older woman's veins. She trembled, preparing for the piercing moment. Preparing for the moment when she would damage that veil of bruised ivory. Preparing for the sweet, metallic flavor that would leak from the wound, a wound that she had been in control of, one she had placed herself. Preparing to hurt Miranda Priestly.

Miranda's command resonated in her mind, Make me bleed.

Her eyes darted skyward, searching for an escape, a diversion. She wanted Miranda, of that much she was sure, but not in the way the editor needed her. On all of the occasions she'd woken up sweating, her heart beating in her ribcage, she had imagined it being very different. She hadn't imagined Miranda being 'soft' or 'cuddly' or any other adjectives that could be used to describe a teddy bear. She'd imagined an edge to her, certainly. But a passionate edge, not something that frightened her. Would she be able to be what Miranda needed? More importantly, was it her that Miranda needed or was this happening out of convenience?

As Andy looked up the stairwell she remembered twin faces peering over at her from her nights delivering the book, years passed. They'd be taller now, perhaps even more curious. She moved her hand to halt the editor's advancements. "Miranda... no.. the girls."

"They aren't here." Miranda rasped, her tongue snaking across Andy's lower lip, pulling it between her own.

"But... they... where are they?"

"Their father's."

"But why --?"

"Is this really necessary?" Miranda snapped in irritation, the anger flaring up in her eyes - a semblance of the reigning queen of the fashion world reflecting in her eyes.

Andy drew a shaky breath into her lungs. She was stalling and Miranda knew it. When Andy moved her lips back to Miranda's neck, she allowed her fingernails to scrape across the soft skin. She winced as she noticed the red trails of irritation she left in her wake and her eyes flew to Miranda's closed lashes as she let out a feral whimper. Andy's fingers stopped in their tracks and she paused, unable to go any further, her heart thumping away without hope of control.

Miranda sensed Andy's discomfort and her eyes shot open, the frustration darkening her irises to a dangerous hue. "Still a disappointment, I see."

Andy froze, her blood screeching to a thinning halt in her veins, her body stiff from Miranda's penetrating words. She slowly pulled back and looked into the editor's eyes, her own chocolate colored orbs coated in coolness, the very picture of detachment, regardless of how badly they stung and how quickly the droplets lined up in her tear ducts.

The words were out of Andy's mouth before she could do the right thing. "Still a cold hearted bitch, I see."

Then she turned on her heel, not waiting for a reaction and punctuated Miranda's destruction with the slamming of the door.

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Chapter 10 - "All my life I could do anything. I could do anything, really. Except the one thing I wanted."  
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Andy struggled out of the hooded sweatshirt she was wearing and swung it at the nearest living room table, feeling a small swell of happiness when it knocked the lamp on its side beneath its weight. Her shoulders slumped forward in defeat and she paced the small apartment, her fingers twitching in the air as though she would lunge at anything that might possibly get in her way.

To say the events of the night were 'fucked up' would be an understatement. When she'd set foot in the patchwork building at the end of the narrow alleyway, the furthest thing from her mind had been Miranda Priestly. Miranda Priestly sat on a throne high above the rest of the world, doling out commands and letting nothing even the slightest bit common, touch the toe of her designer pedestals.

When Andy had stepped through the door into the cell that smelled like rust and metal, with a molding ceiling and blackened walls, and saw the very Queen dragged from her throne and deposited before her, it had been like a semi truck had forced through her stomach. She had been laying against a mattress teaming with germs and filth, her silver hair brushing against a decaying mattress, her body sagging like a broken porcelain doll.

Her first instinct had been to save Miranda, to get her the hell out of there and to rescue her from the harm that had befallen her. She hadn't in her wildest dreams imaged that the torture and terror she had found the editor in was not something that had been thrust upon her, but rather something she had thrust herself upon. She'd seen it in Miranda's eyes, on the stairs at the townhouse. She'd seen the way Miranda responded to pain and fear, with something akin to need.

But she hadn't asked for this. She hadn't come back into Miranda's life only to be treated like a toy in some sick game. She hadn't come back into Miranda's life at all really. They had been drawn together in an eerie way, a likelihood with odds at less than one to a million. In one single night, the rug of all that she had known to be unchanging and steadfast had been whipped out from underneath her, bringing her crashing down upon it.

She loved Miranda. Of that she had been certain since her last moments in the editor's presence. She'd chalked up her initial feelings to a simple crush when she'd first discovered them. It was, after all, something not uncommon for those to feel when working with someone like Miranda Priestly. Someone completely sure of herself in every facet, someone with prowess and power and someone without any apology for who they chose to be.

But what had been a simple crush had set its roots and entwined itself to the bottom of her soul when she'd walked in on Miranda in Paris, alone in her hotel suite with all guards absent and with her drawbridge down. She'd peered through the crack in the facade at the small, lost creature beneath and all she had wanted to do was to have taken Miranda into her arms. To tell her that she was wrong, and that she mustn't feel as though she had lost everything, when she could give her everything she could ever want.

But then she couldn't give her everything she'd ever want, could she?

Andy paced to the other side of the room and kicked the corner of her desk, rattling the sheets of paper free as they burst into a cascade across the floor. She looked down at the fanned papers, noticing the notes she'd written just hours before the whole world had changed. Just hours before the world as she'd known it had stopped, and a new reality and shifted into its place.

There was still the story to write. A story she would submit to her editor and it would bring the whole sordid thing to an end. It would have to end, there was no way around that. This whole thing would have to be over. The illegal underground houses, the sadistic world of a domination and submission, of pain and defeat. She would take this away from Miranda, and whether the woman would know it or not, she would set her free. Set her back to a life of simplicity. Back to a life of schedules and of nights... going home to an empty house and an empty bed.

Andy's face scrunched up and she ran her hands across her features, clearing the distress her muscles had formed. As horrifying as it seemed, she would be taking away Miranda's last ounce of sanity. Whatever it was about these places that Miranda needed, she obviously depended on them as well. But then she had been quick to follow her out of the place when she'd found her.

Miranda had made the decision to leave with Andy, to step out of whatever it was she was about to do to herself. Andy's stomach tightened. And then Miranda had tried to get what she needed from her, and she'd failed. She'd failed Miranda before, but never in such a personal or raw way. She'd seen Miranda with her heart laying in plain view, outstretched in her palm, masks and defenses down and she had failed her.

And then to add insult to injury, she'd thrown a hasty comeback in her face and had left a woman clinging to humanity by a fraying thread, alone once again. 

Everything felt wrong.

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Chapter 11- "Everyday you live with the threat of my extinction. I live with it too."  
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Her heels clacked against the pavement as she hurried along the cold and windy street, her coat tails billowing around her. There was an urgency in her step, propelling her forwards as her silver tendrils whipped against her reddening cheeks. With each step she felt she was being sucked further and further into the darkness, with less and less hope of escape. She could feel it strangling her, urging her on, dragging her against her will to her destiny.

No one made her decisions for her. No one had ever made her decisions for her. She'd carefully planned her every move in life and through the course and results of those choices, she'd truly become everything that Miriam Princhek had once despised.

The urge to turn around swelled in her stomach causing it to flutter unnaturally as her heels collided with the cement in even stride, as she made her way down the dark street. She stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, the passage that would lead to another night of horror. Her eyes flicked down into the nebulous hollow and then moved across the open street. Across the way she spotted a dimly lit phone booth. She considered it a moment, weighing her options.

It looked like a light, shining in the night. A shimmering ray of hope, tempting her away from the obfuscate blackness. It stood majestically proud, acting as a remembrance of her own lost pride. A pride she had traded for the chance to feel again.

She set her sights towards the phone booth and took a few steps closer to it. Her breath was coming unevenly, leaving her nose in clouds of white, reminding her of her infamous moniker. Her cold fingertips clutched at the lapel of her coat as she adjusted it around her neck, feeling the cool air as it tickled beneath the fabric. Her hand found the handle of the phone booth door and she opened it, the plastic rattling noisily in the pane. Closing it behind her she dropped a coin in the slot and lifted the receiver to her ear. Her fingers flew over the keypad, dialing the number she had committed to memory over a year ago, although she would ever admit to knowing it.

The ringing was piercing in her ear, drawing her away from the present and further into the depths of her thoughts. There was so much she wanted to say to her.

I didn't mean to hurt you, Andrea. I never meant for this to affect you. I wish you could have been spared of everything. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything that I've ever done to you. I feel like I'm drowning. I need you. I can change, I want to change. Please, help me change.

"Hello... Hello?" Andy's voice sounded through the earpiece. There was a pause. "Who is this?"

Miranda's breath beat against the speaker. She opened her lips but nothing came out. She couldn't do it. She couldn't do this to her. What was she doing? Trying to lure the woman back to her? It would never work. She would never have Andrea. No matter what could possibly transpire between them, Andy could never stay with her.

She would never stay.

"Hel --"

She pressed her fingertips down on the silver lever, disconnecting the call as the coins shifted and landed inside the metal box.

The receiver slipped from her hand. It swung back and forth, suspended like a lifeless corpse on a noose, a bitter metaphor for her own self-destruction.

Her back pressed against the wall and her limbs gave out from beneath her. She slid slowly down the scratched plastic of the phone booth wall, her face scrunching unattractively against her will. Then the tears came, unevenly, streaming down the elegant slope of her cheek bone and along her jaw. She folded at the middle, a torrent of emotion erupting inside of her, escaping her body in strangled sobs that had finally been set free.

She mourned Miriam Princhek, London, the girl who'd kissed her in the alley. She mourned her first marriage, the children she'd pushed away, the love she tried to show but never succeeded at. She mourned the personal she'd traded for the professional. She mourned everything she'd ever wanted but had never had the courage to ask for.

She mourned the loss of Andrea and for the life they would never have.

\-----

"It's me." The female voice leaked through the phone, the seductive smile ever-present at her lips.

"What do you want?" The male voice grunted angrily in response, clearing having been interrupted from more pleasant activities.

The woman cackled and tapped her broken fingernails on the receiver. "She's back."

\----

The hooded man ran down the alleyway, his breath rasping with each breath, kicking aside the soaking wet papers that lay in his wake. The puddles splashed beneath his footfalls, wetness trailing from the ankles of his dark blue jeans, up towards his knees. When he arrived at the door he wasted no time time formalities and instead pounded loudly on its surface. When there was no answer, he pounded loudly and the thudding echoed off the brick buildings towering above him.

Finally, the door creaked open and he thrust inside, spinning on the woman standing behind it. She grinned, her yellow teeth catching the light as she pushed the door close with a satisfying click.

"Where is she?" He demanded, pacing towards her, his anxiety having reached its peek. She'd never seen him like that before. When the woman merely smiled in response, he pushed her roughly back against the door and clung to her throat. Her tongue flicked out and traced her lower lip, concern marring her features mixing with the nefarious expression lingering deep in her irises. 

"Shouldn't you save this for her?" She rasped.

"Where is she?" he asked again, closing his fingers tighter around her neck.

"Down the hall, same place as usual." she spat, stumbling backwards as he released her. Her bony fingers went to her throat and she caressed the dirty skin, assessing the damage.

The male didn't see because he had already rushed down the hallway, closing in on his target. He swung open the door, the wood creaking loudly as it cracked on its hinge.

She was there.

Standing in the corner, with her silver hair glinting in the moonlight. She was there, as radiant and as beautiful as ever. She spun to face the noise as he entered, a breath sucking into her chest at the sound that had violated the previous quiet. Her mask was firmly over her eyes, still blinding her to the white hot rage that boiled within him.

He wasted no time as he approached her, leaving the games of measured fear to other times. Today he wanted only one thing. To punish her. To break her. To make her pay.

She'd gone away with no notice and without a trace. She'd eluded him, escaped him and had left him for days without hope for her return. No doubt she'd been with others, letting them see the marks he made on her skin. He'd branded her, she was his.

He stepped forward, closer to her and he saw her tilt her head to the side in an attempt to assess his location. He closed the distance and lifted his hand in the air bringing the back of it down hard against her cheek. It caused her to stumble forward clutching her stinging face. She knew things had changed. She realized that something was different.

He'd broken the rules.

He grabbed on to her elbows, lifting her to her feet as he dragged her to the bed. She struggled in his grasp, the fear swelling inside of her. It felt wrong this time, and she knew it.

He pushed her down upon it and climbed on top, using his weight to his advantage as he pulled the leather belt from his waist. She was grappling for freedom. He could feel her movements beneath him, contesting his actions.

He wrapped the leather around her wrists and tied them to the rusty bed frame, moving against her as he watched her writhing in panic. He sneered down at her and slipped one of his hands into the front of his jeans. He grunted as he tugged his hardness free of the restraining fabric and she could feel it against her thigh as he pressed forward.

"Stop!" she commanded, but to no immediate avail. Quite the contrary as it only served to edge him further along. He'd never heard her voice before. It was wonderful, quiet and assertive. He growled against her and looked down at her as he aligned himself with her entrance. Then without warning, he thrust his hips forward, driving his length deep within her.

Her lips parted in pain and she surged backwards, deeper into the molding mattress. He pulled back and drove back in, his actions furious as he took out his anger on her very center.

He looked down at her as he moved, surveying her expressions. Finally, throwing the rest of the rules out of the window, he pulled the mask free of her face and looked down into her eyes. Her lashes parted and she looked up, seeing his face for the first time. Their eyes met, as their bodies moved in unison, controlled by his actions. The tears that had welled inside her eyes from the pain he was causing had begun to leak, the moisture trailing down the sides of her face, mixing with black mascara. She was even more beautiful than he'd imaged, her sweeping porcelain skin, surrounding the dark blue eyes that he'd not initially expected. She looked vaguely familiar.

He moved faster within her, a fury building from an unquenchable sense of proprietary, a maniacal smile curling his lips skyward.

He ruthlessly impaled her body upon him, the thrilling feeling of her tense beneath him, sending pulses of ecstasy from his cock up his spinal cord to his cerebral cortex, coating it in fervid euphoria. Her neck arched backwards as she fought the restraints, her thighs held painfully apart by his weight.

Then it was over. With a primal grunt, he came within her, driving himself so deeply inside that almost tore a plead for mercy from her lips. Instead the sound came out, like a sharp shriek of agony. When he pulled himself out of her, another cry followed, her dryness causing the latex sheath to skid against her bruised inner walls.

He looked down at her, mesmerized by the misery he saw etched across her features. She was panting, not from enjoyment, but from a tight terror that clung to her heart, restricting her breathing. He could imagine her cerebrum committing the affliction to memory, and he felt an enormous sense of pleasure from that fact.

He trailed his fingertips down the inside of one of her thighs and she shuddered beneath his presence. His eyes flared with intensity as he hovered above her, but her eyes refused to meet his. His fingers pinched her chin, forcing it upwards so he could look at her. Hatred and fear mingled within the blue depths that he found incredibly pleasing. "You are pathetic." She stared at him with a frozen expression until he lunged forward, shaking her shoulders roughly with a growl. Her lower lip trembled despite herself as the tears rolled towards the mattress.

Satisfied and sated, he ripped the belt from her hands and threaded it back through his belt loops. He then raked his fingers through his oily hair and stared at her as she struggled to the other side of the room to evade him. His lips tugged up at the corners and he waited in silence until her eyes lifted to him, the gentle silver forelock, sweeping across her brow. Then he slammed the wooden door hard behind him.

She sunk to her silk stocking clad knees on the cold, wet tile.

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Chapter 12- "It's on this day, this day of all days - her fate becomes clear to her."  
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In the earliest hour of the morning, a week after the incident with Miranda, her phone, perched forgotten on her bedside table, sprang to life with a shrill ring tone she'd chosen and forgotten about.

Andy held her cell phone in her hand, staring down at the blank screen. Her brows scrunched together as she stroked her fingertips over it. The clock displayed 12:12am. The phone call had been mysterious, a silent whisper of breath her only reward for answering it. Uneven patterns of breathing, caressing the ear piece.

And yet she knew who it was as soon as the click sounded in her ear.

"Fuck." She shook the phone as if it would somehow bring the lost connection back. She wasn't surprised when silence followed. Cursing herself and her apartment and anything else that got in her way, Andy scrambled for her clothes, pulling pants up her hips and throwing on the nearest coat she could find. The rubber soles of her trainers met stair after stair until she was out of her building and rushing down the street towards the nearest subway station.

It took her less time then expected to arrive at the alleyway but she didn't enter the dark passageway. Instead, she stood off, a little ways from the entrance, behind the rattling frame of a fire escape ladder that was hanging half off its hinges. It seemed like a good place to 'hide' just out of sight with enough of a view of those going in and out of the alleyway. There was of course, the other exit, but the other way led into a succession of different turns and breezeways and she could hardly see Miranda making her way out of them every night after coming to the place.

She swallowed roughly, trying not to imagine what was going on inside Hell's Passage. Her cold fingers clutched the metal of the ladder and the rust spread across her fingertips, printing them a copper color. Her mind raced and the minutes dragged on until an hour had passed with no signs of life entering or exiting the passage. It was very possible that she had been wrong about the phone call. She'd acted on a whim, had hurried down like some sort of impromptu super hero only to find that her assumptions had been incorrect.

Rolling her shoulders to ease her muscles, Andy raised herself back to her feet and dusts off the dirt from her fingertips, her eyes scanning the dark street while her breath escaped in white clouds of smoke. She turned slowly to begin her long walk to the subway station when she heard a stone skitter across cement behind her. She spun back around and lunged behind the broken ladder with just enough time to see a dark figure emerge from the alley. It was walking quickly, and was much too large to be Miranda. It was also clearly male although it was hard to tell from the hood pulled down over his features.

Andy felt a prickle up her spine. She'd known that clothing from her own experiences in Hell's Passage the week prior. He had been another of 'Gabanna's' clientele. And obviously, a regular client if she was seeing him for a second time after only having visited the place twice to begin with.

She kept hidden until the man headed off in the opposite direction down the street, and didn't move until she saw him turn a corner disappearing out of view.

Her fingers went to the lapels of her coat and she tugged them around her cheeks. She was freezing. She hadn't anticipated the cold in her haste to arrive at the alley and after being outside for so long she was losing the feelings in her cheeks and hands. But still, even through her own discomfort, Andy waited. Waiting for what, she wasn't certain. What did she expect to see? What was she planning to do when she saw whatever it was she had come to see?

It seemed she wouldn't have time for possible suggestions however when she saw the Mercedes roll up to the curb in the distance. Andy knew right away what car it was and wasn't surprised to see it pause, without disengaging the engine. The faint street lamps reflected in the silver paint cascading over the car's body, glinting off of the windows and hiding the driver from view.

She checked her cellphone display.The digital numbering declared it was 2:34am.

There were steps coming from the passage then and Andy crouched even lower as she peered through the ladder rungs at the figure emerging. It was Miranda. The heels of her shoes made the familiar clicking noise but Andy could tell the cadence was off. She was limping painfully, her steps concentrated to move her along the wet pavement.

The noise stopped and Andy saw Miranda sway slightly as if she was about to fall and she made a move to catch her but stopped herself when the editor continued the staggered walk towards the car away from her. Andy's large brown eyes watched Miranda carefully, the concern swallowing her heart and raising the faint hairs on her skin. What horrors had Miranda experienced? How many more times would she subject herself to pain and torture?

Andy shook her head and bit into the soft flesh of her lip, reopening the small bite Miranda had made there the week before. She could taste the metal in her mouth and she swirled it around on her tongue. A sudden heat soared through her body then, melting the chill that burnt her skin and rushing in a tingling wave to the apex of her thighs. It wasn't an unexpected reaction as it had been repeating itself since the incident almost every waking moment.

She watched until Miranda opened the car door and backed into the seat. Her legs disappeared behind the silver border before the car rolled slowly into motion and passed by Andy on its way down the darkened street leaving her alone once again.

After a few moments, Andy took off from her hiding place at a run, hurrying down the dangerous streets until she found her way into the small safety of the patrolled subway station at Westchester Avenue, and waited for her train to home. Her mind raced with so many thoughts that she almost missed the train rolling into position at the station, and she had to rush to board it just as the doors hissed closed behind her.

There was no one on the car and she sat down in the row of vacant seats, pulling her coat around her cheeks as she leaned her forehead against the smudged glass. It felt cool beneath her skin, a worthy distraction while it lasted.

Andy blamed the reporter in her that begged answers to the questions swarming around her head at the whole situation. She had understood to a degree, what Miranda got out of her experiences there, but what was it that compelled the woman to go there. Was it a regular pattern, a weekly ritual? Or was it based on a particular pattern? Had she always been this way and was doing this as a 'make-do' while she found a new husband to take the reins of control from her?

 

A shiver traveled down the length of her spine at the thought. She couldn't imagine Stephen or one of Miranda's exes having that power over her. The more she thought about it, she realized that she didn't really like the idea of Miranda with a man at all. Their kiss had been rough yes, but there had been a lingering, unfamiliar feeling, boiling just beneath the surface. It made Andy's skin tingle.

The ride home was relatively uneventful, but just as Andy was turning her key in lock - the plan came to her. She checked her phone's display saw that it was too late to make the phone call so she set the alarm, deposited the phone on the nightstand and crawled into bed in her clothes. Sleep didn't come, and Andy found she was awake at seven when the alarm went off.

She lifted the phone into her hands and scrolled to the correct entry in her speed dial list, one of the several numbers she had been loathe to delete just in case the need ever arose. A contact was a contact no matter how it was acquired. That's what she told herself anyways.

Once she pressed the little green button on her phone, she waited through two rings before a male voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Roy! It's me... Andy... Andy Sachs."

"Well hello again Andy! What do I owe the pleasure?"

Andy smiled softly. She always did like Roy. He was kind and good natured, even when disturbed in the morning hours. But Andy knew she hadn't gotten him out of bed. She knew his routine from her tenure at Runway. Roy was on his way to the cafe where he ate breakfast and prepared for a day with Miranda Priestly. She'd always wondered if she'd allowed herself time to do that, if she would have kept her sanity to stay.

"Uhh... well... it's Miranda."

"Is it ever anyone else?" Roy's amused tone flowed through the speaker and Andy smiled softly, shaking her head.

"Well, I just... I just need to know where Miranda goes at... night. Like, where she goes when... well like where she was coming back from when I saw you last."

There was a throat clearing on the other side and silence before Roy answered "You know how much I like you Andy... but it could be my job if I give out personal information like --"

"I know Roy, I know!" Andy interrupted, her tone understanding but shimmering with an urgency. "I ... you know I wouldn't be asking you Roy, if this wasn't extremely important. It's... I'm worried about her."

There was a pause on the other end and Andy knew that it was probably the first time that anyone had ever said they were worried about Miranda Priestly to him. Miranda Priestly who could skewer a man alive with one acidic remark. The pause lasted so long that Andy was prompted to check if the call was still connected. "Hel--"

"Okay Andy." Roy just barely sighed. "Alright. She goes to a place called Maurey's. It's gotta be pretty elite, cause I've never heard of it. And well you know how much Miranda likes explaining things..." Roy's soft laughter followed his comment but the worry lines forming between her brow prevented Andy from laughing.

"Yeah it's okay. So how often does she go? Is it a regular thing?"

"Well, not really regular. But, she usually gets me out of bed to do it. I've got my cell at my side constantly now. The wife says it feels like she's married to a doctor!" Roy chuckled again and Andy offered an appeasing laugh of her own but it never quite reached her eyes. "I'd say, she goes for a few weeks without going and then will go every night for a few days."

"Has it been... has she been going for long?" Andy asked, her reporter skills kicking in to high gear as she tried to remember the most important questions.

"Nah, I guess... well probably since when she signed the custody papers."

Andy's face blanched and she lowered herself back in to her bed to keep upright. "Custody?"

"Yeah... the custody papers. Miranda signed over full custody to the twins' father."

Another puzzle piece seemed to drop into place. There was no way that a mother, one as attentive as Miranda, would sign over custody papers unless she was at the very end of her rope.

"Roy... I need you to do me a really big favour. Whenever she goes to ... Maurey's... I need you to call me. No matter what time it is, I need you to call me and let me know as soon as you get her phone call."

"Sure Andy. Okay." Roy confirmed. "Look... I gotta go. I've got your number and I'll program it in as soon as hang up here. I uhh..." Roy paused and Andy could hear concern leaking through in his own voice. "Good luck."

Andy nodded in her empty room. "Thanks Roy. I owe you."

"No problem. See ya."

The line disconnected and Andy dropped her cell phone on the bed beside her, bringing her hands up to her cheeks before dragging her fingernails across her scalp.

Andy realized in that moment, two very important things. One was that Miranda Priestly was self-destructing and the margin for survival was growing smaller and smaller with every wasted second. And two, no matter the consequence, she couldn't print the story.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Chapter 13 - "You cannot find peace by avoiding life."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Andy had been watching for Miranda in the streets outside of Hell's Passage, every single time a phone call came from Roy in the late hours of the evening.

It had been happening fairly irregularly at first, and then there had been a month of absolutely nothing. And just when Andy had begun to think that everything was changing, she got a phone call from Roy stating that he was on his way to pick her up. Andy had begun marking down the days that Miranda had visited the house, and she'd noticed a steady incline on those trips nearing London Fashion Week.

London Fashion Week, like Paris Fashion Week, Andy knew were the busiest times of year for Runway, and consequently Miranda. It was times like that, that Andy would think Miranda wouldn't dream of spending what little free time she had at the house. Andy remembered what Miranda was like in the weeks leading up to Paris and she'd seen Miranda's mood deteriorate as the days grew shorter. So it made absolutely ...

... perfect sense. The penny had finally dropped.

Miranda's visits to Hell's Passage were patterned strictly around her busiest and most stressful times. The times when any normal person would be downing coffee faster then it could brew and pulling handfuls of their own hair out by the root. When the average person broke open stress balls and ground their teeth flat overnight, Miranda Priestly went looking for vice.

She was, after all, expected to control every single aspect of Runway's success during the day so it came as no surprise that at night she went to Hell's Passage to give that control to someone else. To take it all out of her hands and make it something raw and faceless.

And that was just the thing she was doing this evening when Andy got the fourth call from Roy that week. But something was going to be very different about this night. Andy had made a decision that she would take the relinquished control that Miranda was offering and she would in turn make sure that Miranda was protected from whatever else was happening in that house by the sadistic creatures that crept in its shadows.

There was only one thing she had not thought of in advance.

How the hell was she going to do it?

\------------

Andy's hand turned the broken handle and she pushed the door backwards, stepping into the same room she had stepped into the day her life had irreversibly changed. Inside things looked almost the same as she closed the door with a quiet click. There was no one on the bed and for an instant, the muscles around her heart tightened and the panic started to set in.

Her eyes flicked over the room quickly and she caught a flash of silver in the corner. Her shoulders slowly lost their tension and she studied Miranda for a moment. She could only see her back, her face having been turned into the corner. She looked small again, frozen, half hidden by the shadows.

Andy resisted the urge to call her name, but remembered the whole point of her being there and managed to tuck her tongue just behind her back teeth. She stepped closer and her heels drove into the filthy tile making loud clacking noises. It signified her approach. She could see Miranda's shoulders visibly tense. The Editor whirled around to face her.

Andy jumped at the sudden action. Miranda's blindfold was securely in place but her elegantly crooked nose peeked out from beneath the black silk as she straightened her shoulders. A lump visibly made its way down Miranda's throat as she swallowed and Andy immediately regretted what she was going to have to do.

She contemplated her first move as she watched Miranda standing inches from her, her skin practically vibrating from the intensity hanging thick in the hollow room. She stalked forward like a well-fed lioness approaching its prey - out of instinct rather than necessity. Miranda's chest was rising and falling quickly, the soft gusts of air escaping through thin nostrils, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

She pulled a silent breath into her lungs and then reached forward, her fingers twisting into silver hair as she pulled Miranda's head back sharply. A small whimper escaped her mouth despite her obvious attempts to keep it in and Andy could feel the scalp trembling beneath her fingertips.

Andy swallowed as she watched Miranda's throat, the editor's chin pointing towards the black ceiling. The entire column of white was fanned with water colored bruises. Andy's free fingers extended slowly, delicately grazing the skin at Miranda's chin. The editor seemed to tense a moment, her nostrils pulling in a scent and Andy remembered that she had put on her perfume earlier in the day and that traces most likely lingered. The editor's head cocked slowly to the side, her hair sliding gently out of Andy's fingers as though she were considering the scent and Andy cursed her own stupidity.

She silently prayed that Miranda wouldn't be able to place it and after the longest minute of her life, it appeared her prayers were answered. Miranda's throat moved in another swallow and Andy tightened her fingers in the silver tresses. She lifted her fingertip to the crook beneath Miranda's chin and dug her thin, sharp fingernail into the delicate flesh.

Miranda's muscles moved beneath the soft skin forming a fortress against the touch in an instinctive reaction. It seemed to set her finger into motion and she winced as she pushed the fingernail deeper into the skin and dragged it down Miranda's arched throat, an angry red mark tainting the skin in its wake. Andy could barely stand it as her finger rolled over the sensitive path and tattooed the flesh below. Miranda's lips parted but no sound leaked out, her labored breathing becoming ragged as the finger moved lower.

Andy stopped at the small hollow at the base of Miranda's neck and she leaned toward it, gliding her tongue around the small dip. It seemed to surprise Miranda, who jumped back from the touch, causing Andy's fingers to clench tighter at the roots in her grasp. Her eyes went to the rickety bed frame and filthy mattress and she considered it, but couldn't bring herself to bringing Miranda down to something like that. She didn't even want to know how many times Miranda had been violated upon its greasy, dirty springs. The thought made her stomach swim with acid and she turned her gaze back to Miranda to regain control.

In anger for the situation and the men that had dared touch Miranda in the first place, Andy made quick work of the buttons at the editor's chest and she pulled the halves aside, tossing them apart before sliding her fingertips into the black lace bra. Then she tugged the fabric down and exposed Miranda's pink nipples.

She had to bite her lip to withhold the gasp as she moved her eyes over the bare skin. She was covered with black and blue bruises, the tender flesh looking incredibly painful to the touch. She wanted to smooth her fingertips over Miranda's skin, to kiss away each and every inch of pain with a featherlight kiss.

But that was not what Miranda needed and that was not why she was here.

Leaning forward, Andy let her lips hover just above one of Miranda's pert nipples, pebbling against the cool air in the drafty cell. Her own body was trembling as she neared it and she dug her fingernails tightly into the flesh of her thigh, striking up the confidence to do what she'd come to do.

In a flash, her porcelain teeth sunk into the pink flesh and Miranda let out a startled cry that shifted into what sounded almost as good as an orgasm, Andy thought as she listened to the faint whimpers, following the sharp sound. She could taste warm blood in her mouth and she allowed her tongue to trace the indents her teeth had made, gliding across the piercing, collecting the life into her mouth.

Despite herself, Andy shifted her thighs as she felt sparks of arousal shooting down between them. It was no secret that she'd wanted Miranda. Hell, Miranda had even figured that one out. But Andy had gone into the experience with a task set in her mind, with no inclination that she might even enjoy it herself. And here she was with a warmth spreading up her abdomen and a dampness she couldn't control.

Her fingers trailed down Miranda's stomach and she yanked her skirt up, shifting her fingers between the older woman's legs and hooking her fingers beneath the thin wisp of fabric. She tugged the fabric down roughly and took a deep breath as she pushed Miranda's thighs apart.

Miranda's head rolled back on its own, freed from Andy's grasp, her back slamming against the wall.

Andy flicked her tongue across her lips and lowered herself to her knees, angling her trembling fingers together as she poised them just outside of Miranda's entrance. She took some time to admire the woman that stood before her, her cheeks blotching red and she was glad that Miranda wore a blindfold. Then after a silent count down from three she thrust her fingers roughly inside and found that the editor was so wet, her fingers glided with little resistance.

Andy could feel herself attaining the same state without even a single touch from the woman, so she wasn't entirely sure what it was that surprised her. Perhaps it was the fact that the object of all of her desires was standing in front of her, with shapely legs spread, completely in her control. A shiver rushed down her spine and she all but whimpered at the throbbing feeling building between her own legs.

She withdrew her fingers and plunged them back in, watching Miranda's reactions in fascination as the editor bucked against her hand, her throat muscles straining as her mouth spread wide for whatever harsh gasps of air she could suck in.

As her fingers rhythmically fucked Miranda, Andy lifted her tongue to the swollen pink area just above and flicked it delicately. Miranda cried out, so Andy smiled and willingly swirled her tongue around the small hardened bud with as much pressure as she could apply.

It didn't take long for the editor's gasps to gather a steady rhythm, her cries growing with the momentum until she strained backwards and let a gush of air expel from her lungs. She bent at the waist, her knees giving out from under her and Andy lunged forward, taking the woman into her arms.

Miranda struggled against the grasp until she could gather enough strength to stand on her own, half using the wall for support. Andy watched her carefully, a smile spreading wide across her lips as she took in the sight of the Editor declining from her orgasm. She had never in her life seen something so beautiful.

Without realizing what she was doing, propelled by the emotions fluttering her stomach, Andy leaned forward and whispered against the shell of Miranda's ear. "I won't disappoint you again."

To her surprise, Miranda's lips merely tilted up at the corners. And in that instance Andy realized that she had known.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Epilogue - "That is what we do. That is what people do. We stay alive for each other."  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She sits at a desk, alone in the study with a pen gripped delicately between her fingers. The ink stains the paper in loops and swirls as she writes on the cream colored pages of a leather-bound book.

\---

It is so hard to believe that it's been a full year. It has been one full year since I accepted the story that changed me more than I could ever have imagined I was capable of changing. It has been one year since I entered that horrible place, and I can still remember the color of the walls. I can remember the way the stench in the air clung to my lungs and how the sounds of rusted metal scraped across the tile. I can remember the way she looked, lying there on the bed, a fragile shell of the woman I had once known her to be. And then later, to know I had in some way caused it was something I will never forgive myself for.

To many, Miranda Priestly is an icon, an idol dangling far above the rest of us mere mortals; without fear, without weakness. But away from the flashbulbs and public eye, she is simply Miranda or Mira as she allows me to call her. She has come through so much and still she is somehow the same woman that I fell in love with while working as her assistant. She is in no way two dimensional. She is built of intricate layers, each one more complicated and compelling than the last. Every day she allows me to see those layers, to peek at their fabrication. She lets me see them, touch them, understand them. And then, when I have experienced them, she closes the box under lock and key and tucks it away.

She isn't having the dreams as frequently now. Once or twice a week, and they are becoming less and less strenuous on her. Sometimes she pretends that she hasn't woken from one and will merely climb out of bed and go to the bathroom. But I know when she is having them. She whimpers in her sleep, clutching the sheets between twisting fingers as the sweat leaks down her face and moistens the collar of her nightshirt. She is radiant even when caught in the horrors of her dreams. She still won't let me touch the scar, but I know some day that I will, and that I will convince her of its importance. She sees it as a mark of lost dignity and pride. I see it as a symbol of her ability to overcome and to persevere in the face of adversity.

Her children are closer to her now, and she with them. There isn't a day that goes by that she doesn't set aside an allotment of time to spend with them. And that is certainly saying something, considering her new position at Elias-Clarke as the President of the Board of Directors. She is running four magazines now, with an entire empire under her direct supervision and control. In the span of one year she went from clinging to her every breath in a struggle to remain with the living - to the reigning sovereign of the fashion industry. Designers throw themselves at her feet, begging for mercy with their upcoming collections, and she alone decides the outcome of their fruition. 

Every time I look at her, whether it be a fleeting glance or a long lingering gaze... I am completely and utterly in love with her all over again. I am certain that the love is returned in everything that she does and says. She is more open then she's ever been. She's shared some of the darker details of what she forced upon herself. She's even told me about the time she came very close to ending it all, to removing the 'cancer from the innocent' as she put it. Even as I write this I find myself blinking back a blur of emotion. The idea of losing her is too much to bear.

Though I told myself that I would never need anyone, that I would always be independent and put my career above all else, I find I am changed. She has taught me to learn from her mistakes. To succeed at ones dreams is not to throw the people and things that matter into the flames. Although there are twenty five years between us, we find ourselves on the very same plain. We have emerged from the cross roads, prepared to face our futures. To have the life we are only now beginning.

Though we have made no lasting commitment to one another, though we have never said the words 'Til death do us part'- our eternal, unwavering bond remains steadfast. Though we cannot pick up a paper and read a contractual agreement, to know that we have a legal, binding obligation to one another - we know in our hearts that it's enough.

That it is all, somehow, enough.

\---

Andy swirls the pen beneath the final words on the page and fans her hand lightly over the paper until the shine has left the ink. Then, ever so slowly, she closes the journal and tucks it neatly into the top drawer of her desk.

She feels hands upon her shoulders then, descending across her collarbone, over her shoulders and down the length of her arms until the cool fingers entwine with her own. Then she feels a chin press into the hollow of her neck and she smiles. 

"Are you coming to bed?" the voice drawls beside her, lips so close to her ear that she can feel the breath in short waves, tickling the sensitive skin. The tone is soft, unique and very much for her ears alone.

"Mmhmm..." Andy mutters and squeezes the slender fingertips before releasing them only long enough to stand. She finds one of the abandoned hands only moments later and clasps it loosely in her own. The woman beside her, dressed in silk sleepwear, turns to her. The silver of her hair catches the light and it glitters in her dark eyes as a radiant smile spreads across her lips. 

They say nothing else, for nothing else needs to be said. They simply walk hand in hand towards the door.

Andy exits first, smiling over her shoulder as the other woman stops in the doorway, turning her cool gaze across the dimly lit room. 

Then with a gentle smile still at her lips, she lifts her hand to the light switch and closes the door on the darkness.

\---

"To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it, to love it for what it is, and then... to put it away."  
~Virginia Woolf fromThe Hours.  
\-----------------------------------  
The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I am not going to say that this is something that could happen in the cannon world of DWP. Although in saying that, I don't intend to write this in any type of Alternate Universe. I consider this a sequel to my fic "Perfect". It is loosely based on the 1967 French film starring Catherine Deneuve called "Belle de Jour". Quite obviously used The Hours as inspiration for the sections of the story.
> 
> A tremendous thanks to mercurial_muse, dragonwine and a__ for all of their help with beta-ing and support! I seriously would not have continued this story if I didn't have you all to lean on for help and guidance. You are amazing. 
> 
> Originally Posted on LiveJournal - January 10th, 2009


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